


Sway

by MadamMortis



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Humor, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-11-16 02:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 59,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18086123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamMortis/pseuds/MadamMortis
Summary: "The questions remained: Could the tiniest variation affect all that which followed it? Could the path never trodden be the key to changing that which seemed so impossible to change? Could a mind, set irrefutably to stone by ancient purpose, be made pliant still and, by the light of what was never intended to be known, to sway?"A little Lavellan/Solas fanfic. Spoilers as such, apply.





	1. Conviction

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Dragon Age Inquisition and its characters, situations, storylines and heartbreaks do not belong to me. No remuneration is made through the plucking out of this little story. Or the invariable plucking at heart strings.
> 
> A/N: I arrived to the Dragon Age party very late in the evening. Five years late, to be exact. (Disgraceful, I know. It would be an insult to call it fashionable).
> 
> I typically do not enjoy the fantasy genre, as I've often found it to be far too pretentious and full of its own self-importance. I am pleased to say that I found none of this in Dragon Age Inquisition. It is far from typical in all respects. A game I picked up off of the Playstation store for the insultingly low price of $12.00, nonetheless. (DLC's included).
> 
> I had decided to give the game a try, as I discovered there was a romance aspect to it; which I adore in a role playing game. Not to mention the sex scenes. Needless to say it appealed to the not so secret pervert in me. I thought to just go and have a little fun with the game, nothing too serious.
> 
> Then I decided to romance Solas.
> 
> Dear God.
> 
> As it stands, I feel that I am the newest addition to that very special place so many fans refer to as 'Sollavellan Hell'. And Andraste's ass, is it a wonderful place. As painful as it is beautiful. What a freaking ride.
> 
> Dragon Age Inquisition is a wonderfully smart, charming, acerbic game. The writing is exceptional, the world is beautifully detailed and verdant and the characters are well rounded, complex and rich. It has a terrific sense of humour that makes it timeless and an unabashed means of exploring sexuality, inclusiveness and challenging dated preconceptions around areas such as gender identity.
> 
> I can quite honestly say that I have never felt myself so wonderfully impressed by a piece of media; to approach the work from any number of angles and in such an informed and sensitive manner and yet still having fun with it. The writers themselves seem such an approachable bunch too, who take the time to truly appreciate and engage with their fans, which makes it feel all the more wholesome. It was a heartbreaking experience to get so involved in this fandom, and I wouldn't change a moment of it. (As you can tell, I could easily wank on about it until the cows took a dump on the doorstep).
> 
> That being said, I did get to wondering (as I'm sure most every Solasmancer does. I am a new convert, but yes, I do identify) what would in fact happen should a variable or two be introduced into the storyline? Things that were subtle, that would challenge me, as a writer, to maintain the integrity of the story, its ultimate conclusion and how this might impact discussion, motivation and rationalization. To not change the story in any dramatic fashion but to add perhaps a little more meat and depth. Again, something I think everyone who is a fan of the Lavellan/Solas romance would not have objected to.
> 
> And of course, I wanted to write the romance and smut that concerned my particular OC. That's a given :) I must indulge myself. Given how late I am to the ball game, I doubt that the story will attract much attention but that in itself is not the reason I am writing it. I enjoyed the game, the romance and the dynamic and felt suitably inspired and the writing became the enjoyment in and of itself. And since I already have an account and am taking a break from my other fanfiction I thought well, why not share it?
> 
> Okay, enough blathering for now. Although I do impart a, for the most part standard, SPOILER ALERT warning. (I feel like I'm the very last person in the world to have boarded the Dragon Age Inquisition train, but I won't presume to make that assumption and end up ruining things for folks)
> 
> WARNING: This story, clearly, contains spoilers for Dragon Age Inquisition and in particular the Lavellan/Solas romance. This includes the end of the game and for the Trespasser DLC. If any of this is likely to come as a shock to you, then for the love of God, leave this page, power up your game and FINISH THE DANG THING. Don't go looking for fanfiction before finishing the game! You'll ruin it for yourself! Golly!
> 
> Additional warnings: This chapter contains scenes that some individuals may find triggering. This includes instances of violence and sexual assault against someone under the age of eighteen. Please be advised that the story will address heavy content at times and my intention is not to cause upset or offense with its inclusion. It is simply the means by which I create a narrative. It will not be a prevailing and or reoccurring theme. That being said, please take care of yourselves everyone and if anything you read here is triggering, please feel free to message me for discussion and or alternatively speak to someone that you trust. My love to you all my darlings and I hope that you enjoy!

> _“Strange!” thought the oak, (permit the fable,)_
> 
> _“That plants so slender should be able_
> 
> _Thus to survive the stormy day,_
> 
> _Which made my stubborn limbs give way.”_

> _A reed, just bending with the storm,_
> 
> _Then to the oak inclined its form;_
> 
> _And thus it whisper’d,—”Aged friend,_
> 
> _I do not break, because I bend."_

  
**_~ Jefferys Taylor - The Oak and the Reed ~_**

 

_ **Skyhold - 9:42 Dragon...**  _

On a balmy afternoon, less than three months following the death of Corypheus, Dorian Pavus asked what he supposed to be one of the few genuinely thoughtful and important questions of his life.

"Do you regret it?" He asked, sipping from his wine (so understated compared to that which Tevinter offered) and looked to the woman standing at his side. They had taken their drinks for a walk along the parapets, something with which he felt rather the more uncertain, given her questionable state of mind at that time.

She wore the grey sweater still. It needed to be washed, but she would not part with it. Her hair, once so carefully coifed and maintained now hung in limp chunks about her face. Half of a comb lay tangled and forgotten in a nest that had formed on the crown of her head. Her wide eyes (eyes so large had simply no place being shelved on a persons face, Dorian had once thought) had lost some of that natural lustre they seemed to have so easily exuded in the past. She drunk from her cup without ceremony; without care for the taste, but only the result. She wanted to be numb, he knew. Because the pain that she felt, every moment of her waking day, was unbearable.

"Dorian." She said and looked to him so earnestly that it sent a blaze of pain through his own heart. That degree of empathy might have surprised him once, if it were not for the fact that this woman was quite simply the only true friend he had. "Every morning I wake up and just for a second, I'm ignorant. I wish I could stretch that second out into an eternity. But then, I remember. I remember and... each and every time it feels like someone has ripped the bones out of my body."

Tears flooded her eyes, turning the brown of her irises into rich whiskey coloured pools.

"I can't breathe. Sometimes I... throw up. Not that there's much to bring up. Food tastes like fucking chalk." She raised the sleeve of the jumper to her nose, closed her eyes and took a deep breath in. She did this routinely, like a lyrium addict easing into their next dose. And much like an addict, the act of it seemed to instill in her a calm. She could speak then, sniffing back at whatever it was that had been making its way down her nose. "I never knew a body could feel so much pain and just go... right on ticking."

She gave a sad, ironic sounding chuckle. Dorian thought it all the more heartbreaking; for the fact that she had always been such a light and hopeful person. Not this... shadow to whom he was currently speaking.

"And I know you'll think I'm well touched in the head for feeling this. Gods knows I've thought the same things some of the worst nights, but," She looked up at him, the square of her jaw jutting in such a way as to make her appear defiant, somehow. "I don't regret it. Not now. Not ever. The pain is just a... trade off. It's the price you pay, for knowing great love."

She smiled. The saddest smile he had ever seen. Brushed tears from her cheeks with her fingers, careful not to get them on the sleeve of the jumper.

"I was _blessed_ , Dorian. Too few people in this world get to experience what I did. I had but a moment with him. And it was small and brief and gone too soon but it glistened like a diamond. I wouldn't change a second of it. And I _want_ to keep hurting. The pain is the proof of how much I love him." And she laughed then. Laughed through the tears that seemed as much a part of her these days, as was the mark upon her hand. "I'm lucky. really. I got to spend a sliver of time with my soulmate. How few of us can ever boast such a thing? That's like... plucking a star out of the sky."

Dorian had only recently experienced the genuine throes of love himself. And it was ever the more true that it was rarely a simple thing. He felt himself however fortunate, for there was a ways for him to be with the person he loved and to share the joys of continued companionship, conversation and sex. But then, he was not Dalish, he supposed. He had heard once that when the Dalish elves entered into a relationship, they took a 'both feet, fuck caution to the wind' manner of approach. Theirs was a serious, passionate and emotional affair; of which still waters ran deep.

He had seen the proof of her love. And that of his, the man to whom she had given her heart. What made little sense was that he was no longer here and had left no suitable explanation as to why.

Dorian watched his dear friend whittle her days away in hurt, denial and longing. More so, she seemed to make a point of rubbing vinegar into her still glaring wounds; avoiding every attempt made by the others to help with alleviating her heart break. The very worst however, was how she had taken to avoiding Cole. Treating him as though he were clothed from head to toe in Red lyrium; the boy to whom she had once been so nurturing and close. He in turn, attempting in his usual glib fashion, to work his way back to her side, so as to put into effect the healing words and turns of phrase that so often set the weary, wounded souls to rest. She would not have it. She did not want to be free of the pain. Not entirely.

_The pain is proof._

And holding onto it, was keeping that brief time of happiness she had experienced alive. It was keeping him close, even when she could not discern how far away he now in fact truly was.

Dorian might have supposed it pitiable and pathetic, if not for the fact that he had great respect and indeed love for the woman he had known as the Inquisitor, and more relevantly, as a friend. He knew her to be courageous, possessed of wit, charm and an effervescent sense of humour she had little want, or ability even, to bridle. Such a person could not be so easily undone, he had thought and had admired all the more for it.

And yet here she barely stood. A waif, clinging to the threadbare remnants of his presence, smiling in that awful manner that made her look as though her brain had been crudely excised from out of her ear and perfumed all the while with the lingering scent of whatever ghastly moonshine concoction she got her now bony hands onto. She smoked far too much elfroot to boot, though tellingly never whilst wearing the beloved (and now rather ripe in its own right) sweater. She would not risk having altered the smell and pushing him yet irrevocably further from her still.

To fully appreciate the depths to which someone has sunk, it helps of course if you know from what heights they fell. And for Svetlana Lavellan, head of the Inquisition, there was no greater height from which to topple than that to which she had been unwittingly elevated to over a year past.

A Dalish elf; modest in stature, even whence compared to those of her kin and quite remarkably unremarkable, really. Having found herself propped up as head of the once fledgling organisation known in Thedas as the Inquisition, she could hardly imagine who was more surprised by her installation; herself, or her ever curiously blinking family. She had been after all, by all reports, rather the under achieving elf.

She herself wondered, in the hours not spent duly occupied with the depths of her misery, how their story might be described in the future. A tale of adventure, trial and tribulation; of perseverance, courage and resilience in the face of insurmountable odds. It was, she was certain, how most around her transcribed the time of the Inquisition whence in retelling.

That was not, however, how she herself saw it.

For Svetlana, her time in the Inquisition had not been primarily for restoring peace and order in a perpetually warring and divided Thedas. Neither had it been a force for preventing the malignant entity known as Corypheus from destroying their world. To her, the major determining incident of this entire flagrant affair, the conquering factor that struck sharp into the core of her memory, was love.

Amidst the war, the bloodshed, the fighting and the terror, Svetlana had stumbled headlong into something she hardly imagined many a soul to be blessed with. An incomparable, unconditional love; something which struck numb the very fibre of her heart and continued to shake the very foundations of her being.

But that, of course, is skipping ahead. Beginnings only rightfully belong at the very beginning of a tale. And this tale begins with the birth of one remarkably, unremarkable elf. An elf who would change the course and fate of the known world forever, in spite of her very best efforts to not do so at all.

**~X~**

It was the year 9:11 Dragon. Svetlana Lavellan was born one month premature, to a mother who had had quite enough of her in utero kicking by that stage and was rather well shot of her. The attending _Hahren_ had been a little slow off of the mark, and failed to catch Svetlana's slippery little body at the precise moment she was expunged from her mother's birth canal. This resulted in the infant schlepping down head first into the dry leaves (and protruding roots) that had accumulated at the base of the tree her mother was currently gripping onto. As such, there was an extra bit of washing and dabbing required, but overall not a great deal of damage was perceived as having been done. If one were to ignore the apparently large lump that had formed on the back of the infants soft skull, but the _Hahren_ (having dispensed a hearty slap to the newborns arse) assured the worried mother that all was well. The Dalish were, after all, a tough, hardy people and their children were no exception.

She was named Svetlana for no particular reason, other than the fact that her mother had liked the sound of it. There was no sentimental relevance; she had heard it from an old story one of the elders had told one particularly frigid night in her youth, huddled about the fire and wishing that her elder sister would share the bear skin rug she'd currently wound about herself like a second skin. Svetlana did however learn of its true meaning later in life; an antiquated Elvhen word that loosely translated to _'path of shining light_ '. She thought it wonderfully pretentious of course and wished that her mother, who had always enjoyed a bit of wrist twirling theatrics, had gotten to find out as well. She would certainly have gotten a kick out of it.

Svetlana was a cheerful child; prone to big smiles and gurgling giggles and a propensity to strip her clothes off whenever the urge took her. Which was often. She did not discriminate as to the company she was in either. According to her siblings, if she felt the need to exhibit her undercarriage, she would simply reef off whatever it was that her begrudging mother had draped her in, twist off her napkin and go about her business as though nothing was out of the ordinary. She did this whether in the company of other children, the hunters, or on one occasion, in the Keeper's hut; where she had further disgraced herself thoroughly by pissing onto the floor and then reportedly playing in it. (Svetlana chose to believe that such a story had been fabricated by her siblings in an attempt to discredit her and refused to pay it credence. At least so far as the frolicking about in her own urine part, was concerned).

Indeed, if left unattended for any length of time, Svetlana would away to her pudgy little legs and toddle off to parts uncharted. One memorable occasion saw her slip down the clay riddled embankment of the river the clan had been camping beside, chortling all the while as her father dove frantically along on his belly behind her. She had apparently thought if terribly good fun and her insistence on giggling into her fathers' mud streaked face immediately endeared her to the older members of the clan. For she was hardly a needy child, if a bit impetuous at times. Able to entertain herself for hours on end, with burbling conversations with persons imaginary, with drawings scrawled in the dirt and little persons envisioned from the cobbling together of twigs, leaves and bundles of dried grass.

Imaginative though she was, Svetlana quickly earned the reputation of being a child who, though hardly spoiled and wanting for anything, was insistent on having whatever prize it was that she set her eyes on. She was especially one-eyed when it came to food; in particular fruits or anything with so much as a hint of sugar in it. Berries in particular she might have crawled over burning coals to get her fingers on; such was her infatuation with both the taste and colour. She'd spend just as long looking at a berry as she would swilling its sweet meat about on her tongue; with an expression not dissimilar to that of a contented Druffulo chewing its cud.

And, much like a Druffulo, she was deceptively strong; such that many members of the clan came to wondering whether that knock to her newborn head might have impinged on something fundamental in her mind. At age four, she took a hold of her elder brother Dhavaro's hand with such force that her father had been required to intervene so as to pry her fingers apart. The intent for her part had appeared purely innocent and she seemed appropriately puzzled as to all the indecent squalling that her brother was currently unleashing. It transpired that she had managed to break a small bone in his pinkie finger; a fact that he joyfully cajoled her with when they were both grown and years enough had passed for them to appreciate the innocuousness of the situation.

This did not help matters much in her childhood. As a result of her inability to curb this strength at such a young age, Svetlana found herself often without playmates and was forced to return to her idle daydreaming's and self-entertainments. Though this should not in the least suggest that in her elder years that members of the clan were not kind to her, nor sought to approach for friendship. It was simply an inevitability that by this stage, Svetlana had learnt a great deal about self-reliance and whilst always friendly and enjoying of company, was not one to pine for it. She did after all, always have the company of her family.

As she grew, she quickly earned the nickname _Da'Hara_ ; which meant ' _Little Hare_ ' in in the Elvhen tongue. This was mainly on account of her ears; which were smaller than most any other members of the clan but also on account of her eyes. Contrarily large, such as was the norm with Elves but wider still so that she affected a near perpetual expression of alarm. Much like a rabbit sitting pert in a field; listening astutely for the tell-tale footfall of a predator. Probably chewing all the while, just as Svetlana herself was prone to doing.

At the age of four, Svetlana's family grew once more; with the addition of  her younger brother Loughlin. (Another of her mother's whimsies proved responsible for the acquisition of that rather obvious _shemlen_ name.) The pregnancy had been unexpected and with a total of now five children to their credit, Svetlana's parents made the decision to pull the plug on any future additons. Her father went for a operation, which was completed by the Keeper herself and which would prohibit him from being able to sire more children. Svetlana supposed it must have been a spell, though it left him considerably affected and loopy for some weeks afterwards. For her part her mother appeared pleased. Seeming to take some almost sadistic pleasure in seeing her husband walk about in dazed circles, gibbering to himself nonsensically and then dragging himself back inside the lean to with a look on his face like a hound that had just been kicked. Svetlana did however remember being the recipient of a lot of quality cuddles at this point in her life. Indeed, her father seemed a great deal more inclined towards affection; much to the disgust of her older brother, who would desist with all the efforts of a nug trying to escape the jaws of a starving bear. She knew, in the years later, that he regretted not giving in more to the old mans need for affection.

Svetlana's father was, at that time, the _Halla_ Keeper for the clan and had taken to teaching his eldest daughter, Assan, how to perform the work herself. She had a natural gift for engaging with the beasts, which was appropriate, given that she seemed to have very little time and or patience for her fellow elves. Svetlana's mother in turn, operated as one of the clans' hunters and it was to Dhavaro and Svetlana that she would impart her own particular brand of teachings. She was strong and agile and favoured an axe, which she swung with such force that it would send any of the supposedly strong men of the clan to quivering in their breeches. Svetlana thought her the most astounding woman to have ever graced the ground of Thedas. By the time she was six, her mother would sometimes take her into the woods and show her how to set the snares and traps and to hunt the smaller game. When she tired, her mother would pick her up, tuck her into the sling she kept about her neck and then bound home with her as though she weighed nothing more than a loaf of bread. She was strong, fearless and had a bawdy, unabashed laugh that seemed to make the fabric of the lean to quiver whenever she unleashed it. To Svetlana, she seemed the very epitome of indestructible.

She was seven, when her mother disappeared.

She had been out with the rest of the big game hunters. There hadn't been anything special about this particular excursion, so they were later told. Just your average run of the mill round up; thinning out some of the bear populace that were starting to travel too close to their encampment in the Free Marches. Only this time, they failed to return.

During this time, Svetlana supposed her father slept little more than one or two hours a night; most of his time spent running with the search parties, in a bid to find the missing hunters. Their Keeper sent many able bodied elves to where the group was last located, but her mothers' body was never found. Death was certain had she not returned, for Svetlana's mother was a steadfast woman, whose love for her gentle husband and family was firmer and more deeply rooted than the oldest of trees in the Emerald Plains.

It was but less than a year later that their father had passed away in turn. He went quietly one night; failing to rouse to Svetlana's urgent poking's and prodding's the next morning, calling him to a breakfast that had quickly been turning cold. His hair had gone grey in the temples in short order and his skin was sunken and sallow and lines had appeared where before they had no cause to be. The handsome man whom had wanted precious little from life than to hug and to hold his children and wife to him, was reduced to a husk in but a few short, pain riddled months.

The Keeper had said that it had likely been a complication resulting from some unforeseenn illness but whispers suggested a far more romantic interpretation; that he had died of a broken heart. Svetlana had been only a child herself at the time and knew only that both her parents were now struck from this world and the void she felt in place of their love, was pain enough that she could barely blame her father for having found some means to escape it.

Care of the family fell predominately then to the two eldest children; Assan and Cillian. It hadn't been a particularly easy upbringing, as they too had much to grieve and a life that had been wrought with a sudden and violent change. Svetlana found her elder sister Assan to be a particularly stern and critical disciplinarian. It felt that for much of the time, she could barely do a whit right and was under constant criticism for her clumsiness or feeble mindedness or whatever the hell else it was that she was somehow likely to have perpetuated simply by having woken up and drawn breath. Bhavaro, two years her senior, took up much of Assan's focus and Svetlana in turn, was given the responsibility of caring for Loughlin; who was still young and in great need of support. Cillian did what he was able but as a Dalish with a talent for magic, he was currently in training to be installed as the First to the Keeper. Plus, he already had a wife and one infant child of his own. The majority of the clan were available to provide support where needed and there never seemed to be a short supply of offered meals, shoulder rubs and gifts of clothing, toys or whatever else might have been perceived to have been needed. Svetlana could never begrudge them for stepping up as they had done. If there was one thing that the Dalish were exemplary at, it was sharing the load. It takes a village, so they say.

The years rolled by, as they do. By age fourteen, Svetlana was particularly restless and more than pleased to receive blessing from the Keeper to begin hunting in earnest with some of the big game parties. Given the natural strength of her arm and the encouragement from the Hunters in the clan to continue working on building up her muscles, she was considered to be a natural choice for support in bringing down the larger game; such as bears and wolves and (Gods forbid, should it transpire) the odd Wyvern or two. It wrought concern to her family of course, given what had happened to their mother but Svetlana needed something as a point of focus. It was getting harder and harder to sit about in the encampment. Most everyone spent their time talking behind their hands about Dhavaro anyway and the " _Terror of the Woods_ " incident. It was maddening, boring and insulting. She needed an outlet. And hunting proved to be an invaluable one.

She had started to look quite a bit more womanly, by this age too. Though hardly the green eyed, red haired beauty such as her sister; Svetlana supposed herself not so unfortunate when it came to the looks department. Though, as Assan was often prone to reminding her, she was in possession of qualities that, whilst striking on their parents, came together in an unusual way whence reproduced in Svetlana. She had her father's somewhat square jaw and mother's distinct, pouty lips; features that looked beautiful whence set apart but when placed together, had the rather disconcerting effect of adding too much weight to the lower portion of her face. Her cheekbones were high, and so was her forehead; which she attempted to hide by drawing her long, black hair down across the borders of her face. A means to detract attention both from its height and from the thick scar that stretched near across the length of her forehead; a vestige of a nosedive she had taken onto a fallen log as a child.

Her nose was small, much like her ears and she was barely five feet in height; with a very lithe frame. And though only fourteen years of age, she hardly felt herself likely to fill out so far as 'womanly assets' were concerned. Her mother had possessed a similarly slender shape, after all.

If there was one thing Svetlana gave herself permission to be proud of, it was her eyes. They might have possessed the near perpetual countenance of a startled owl but they were framed by thick, long lashes and their colour was a sort of light golden brown, with just a hint of green that came to light depending on what she might have been wearing. She had been told by some of the kinder members of the clan that she had a ' _warm_ ' face (which she supposed to mean 'pleasant' and which by further translation could be interpreted as 'plain') and ' _expressive_ ' eyes. One thing she was certain of, if she could be certain of most anything in this world, was that when she looked into someone's eyes, especially with any depth of emotion, they seemed for that one flash of time to be wholesomely invested in what she had to say. It was what little power she might have otherwise possessed in a world in which she had so very little of it. And though she was not a person with whom power held much sway, it was comforting to her all the same, to be acknowledged.

It was during this time that Svetlana's elder brother Dhavaro was set to receive his _Vallaslin_. Two years her elder, he was a prodigious and studious individual; skilled in both hunting and philosophy alike. He was possessed of a sharp mind, was well accomplished in most any task he undertook and had no short set of admirers within the clan. Such was the nature of his accomplishments, that he had been approved to undertake the blood writing ritual at the age of sixteen, whereas it was traditionally more appropriate to wait until the age of seventeen or eighteen; when a child typically becomes more mature in their approach to most anything. Dhavaro, however, was considered exceptional in this regard. Great things were expected of him.

Svetlana would never forget it. Most members of the clan returned to the campsite following their woodland meditation under their own steam. Dhavaro had to be carried out five days after he had gone in; deliriously ranting, eyes rolled back in his head, lips bloodied from where he had bitten through his lower lip. There was no mistaking just what form his own _Valleslin_ would take; the distinct markings of June had been carved into his face with his own now tattered fingernails. He had been lost to some manner of fit, some madness of the mind that took to consume him from that day forward. For the passing of three nights the healers tended his bedside; keeping his hands wrapped and bound to prevent further injury to his face and to others. He did however make no such attempts to do so and would speak only the same words over and over again: " _Var elgara na durgen... anahl theves_ ".

The last two words were untranslatablee, and seemed nothing more than pure, addled minded gibberish. The first four however, seemed ever the more bizarre and they held at least some context. " _The sun is/as/to stone_." He had been questioned about it upon 'awakening' as it were; where the fits no longer appeared to have unyielding control of him, but he was unable to answer. He could not recall, he said, what had occurred to him in the woods and would say only that it was the marks of June that would form the basis of his _Vallaslin_.

Whatever he had seen in his meditive state in the woods had changed him, however. He was no longer the quietly humble, confident and positive person who had entered between the trees with such a hopeful stride. A shadow had walked out in his place; one whom merely existed to render itself to a state of unimpeachable numbness every day. The passion that he seemed to exude so effortlessly had been all but snuffed out. He drank from dawn until dusk, smoked and sold whatever objects and resources he accumulated to the human traders in exchange for the recreational drugs that had gained popularity in their cities. Svetlana supposed she had never seen her sister and eldest brother so heartbroken and contrarily baffled by anything. Dhavaro had been like a fresh green leaf, whisked from the tree upon which it had thrived and battered mercilessly by the summer breeze until the very foundation of what he was had become dry and brittle. He had been crushed underfoot then and shattered into tiny, irreparable husks. Husks that twirled and danced with the wind and evaded all the grasping hands that sought to piece him back together. He seemed to want none of it. Those eyes that were once bright and smart and hopeful were now a plunging void; sadness dripping from the walls like condensation, beading on lashes that framed red eyes, brokered by distended veins and a tell-tale yellow tinge that in the years after took to worsening. Eyes Svetlana remembered all too well; framed by the face of her father as he stared out into the woods, beseeching the return of the woman that he loved.

A sickness ran in her family, she had started to realize. A sickness of constitution, or lack thereof. They simply had little ability or desire to endure. To thrive. If a part of their world were to fail them, then they too would fail in turn. They lived in symbiosis, dependent on something - whatever it was- to maintain them. It frightened Svetlana, to see such a thing. Dhavaro was the one of them who was intended to be exceptional. The sort of elf who could stand for the clan in any matter. Could lead a nation, such was his natural charm, kindness and confidence. To see him come undone by... Gods only knew what, well. It simply rankled the very foundations of everything she thought she could hold true to. She promised herself that she would not be so foolish as to invest so much of herself in anything, lest it come violently undone. Self-sufficiency, that was key. She could not forget this. It was an integral means to her survival and one that she must maintain if she were to avoid the trap into which so many members of her beloved family had already fallen.

Some weeks after Dhavaro had returned from the woods (and turned, in turn, to the contents of a moonshine bottle) a fellow girl in the clan had taken Svetlana under her wing in friendship and introduced her to some, what the Dalish called, "embellishment items." Items with which one could further elucidate ones features and make them more pronounced. Svetlana was particularly intrigued, given her fondness for colours and some lingering concerns as to her own perceived to be 'plain' appearance. The girl had shown her a few lip stains that had been made from a combination of wax and dye and one in particular had caught Svetlana's eye. It was a dark purple; similar to that which she had seen on the wings of a butterfly when she had been a child playing out in the field. The same colour as seen on her very favourite tasting berry. A colour one never saw very often in clothing items; as it was expensive to produce and indicative more of the _shemlen_ and their more spoilt and extravagant ways.

She had tried it on nonetheless and revelled in the attention the colour had brought her. Her sister and the clan Keeper had not approved of course, but for Svetlana it was simply just one more thing that she liked and one more thing she would keep for herself. She'd taken to using a bit of dark coal around her eyes as well; to shadow and then to line her upper and lower lids. For the first time, a certain kind of confidence seemed to venture through her. One she hadn't yet experienced in her quiet, unassuming life. She felt then the eyes of the men in the clan linger on her just that moment or so longer. They were taking notice of her, a girl whom before now had garnered as little attention as that of a leaf blowing across the path in front of them. She revelled in it. Modest though it was, for her it was every bit as sweet as those first delicious mouthfuls of berries had been as a child. She resisted once more the urge to buck free her clothing and give her body over to the newly fostered attentions she was receiving. Old habits died hard, it would seem and she was at that delicate age where the interest of men was starting to be of some interest to her.

The effects and the danger of attraction never became more apparent to Svetlana than when she was cleared by the Keeper to commence hunting on her own. Her responsibilities were naturally limited, given her age but Svetlana had already proven herself to be a strong and capable presence (in so far as bringing down game was concerned) and most in the clan deemed her able to take care of herself. Perhaps they simply wished for her to be out from underfoot, for she was notoriously terrible at preparing food and bungled whatever tasks the craftsmen might have dared to pass into her possession. She was a well meaning girl, with whom boredom proved an invariably fatal foil. And a book could only hold the attentions of such a physically minded individual for so long.

Svetlana's main responsibilities were collecting game from the snares that the other hunters had set up the previous evening but sometimes along the line she would stop a while to fish or to bring down a rabbit with her bow and arrow. Owing to the often muggy clime of the Deep Marches, she went about her business much as the other hunters in her clan did; stripped bare to the waist and with legs exposed from the open panels in the side of her hunting dress. Nudity had never been a great concern amongst the Dalish; they favoured practicality and comfort far more than modesty. The body, of course, was nothing by which to be ashamed and by promoting familiarity with the naked form, most Dalish believed that they subverted the flat-ears seemingly endless 'taboo's' in regards to it.

A taboo of which Svetlana came to experience herself, when, having poised one late morning astride a fallen log, arrow and bow ready to fly, she sensed movement in the bushes to her right. She spun about, bringing the disturbance into her metaphorical cross hairs instead and was surprised to find a human male, likely no older than his mid to late twenties, stepping out from the mediocre cover provided by the scattered foliage, with hands raised genially beside his head. His eyes were wide, almost reverentially. They didn't leave her for a moment but glanced about, with quick, darting strobes to other parts of her body.

Svetlana had never experienced a gaze such as this before. The Dalish were, after all, far more accustomed to the baring of the flesh than the _shemlen_ were. (So the others had told her, anyway). Nor had she ever cause to cross paths with a human before now. It was rare for them to travel so deeply into the Marches, for the terrain was vastly unforgiving so far as their ability to camp there was concerned. And the weather was tempestuous at the best of times. The land offered little besides the means by which to live. And she knew that this was hardly a lure for humans, who were notorious for seeing value only in that which would embellish and elevate the status of the perceived mundane.

They watched each other a while; the elf and the human. He looked to her as though she were a jewel he had routed from the deepest trenches of Orzammar and it was a gaze Svetlana would one day curse herself for not having seen for what it was. She had been blinded by her own naivety; of youth, of isolation from the wider world. But mainly, that of a pervasive need to feed her own delicate insecurity. She had not attained any of her sister and mothers great beauty. With her dark hair and tanned skin, she often felt as though she blended into herself; like a clod of clay in the hillside. To have this mans eyes upon her, as though he had wandered up on something ephemeral and marvellous... well, it spurred something inside of her. Gave her a tingling feeling through her body. A sort of... power, she'd never known she had.

She had questioned him in the Elvhen tongue and he had responded with perhaps the only word he had known: ' _Hello'_. Svetlana had of course learned the common tongue, for the Elvish language was fractured and insufficient with which to hold conversation. She waylaid in letting him know this; feeling it might break whatever spell which held the both of them seemingly enthralled. She supposed he looked to her as this wild, untameable presence on which he had so carelessly stumbled. It never occurred to her that he might perhaps have been searching for them.

This went on for some months afterward; the man would appear, usually about the same place and took to watching her while she hunted. Sometimes taking notes or sketches. Other times just sitting in silence, head slightly set to an angle as though to aid in better admiring her. He wore ridiculous clothes, she thought. Flouncy sleeves, bright attention seeking colours. A hat that really had no purpose in life other than to sit upon his head like some absurd ornament. And the shoes... they had a little curl on the toes, the purpose of which she couldn't even begin to wager a guess at. They would be useless if he were ever required to kick out at someone in defence of his life. Where on earth had such a strange little man hailed from, she wondered? He certainly looked nothing like the hunters and traders that she had come into contact with in the past. Perhaps, she later surmised, she had been just as curious in regards to him as he plainly was with her.

She conceded eventually to speaking with him in the common tongue; not enough to broach any level of true intimacy  but enough to keep him interested. He attempted to bring her gifts; fruit usually or little cakes and pastries that he had apparently acquired from some place called 'Val Royeaux'. She was tempted, because of course food had most usually been her vice but she was not yet so trusting and gullible (or in need) that she was prepared to be debt to this man. One day, he left one of the cakes on a branch nearby and curiosity finally won out, for the closest she had ever come to such a thing was the bread that her clan baked in the stone fireplace; which had a salty texture. This little pastry was unlike anything she had tried before; sweet, with fine crumbly and colourful lashings to form a decorate flower like pattern on top. She spent an inordinate amount of time fearing that she might have been poisoned or some such thing but no adverse side effects presented themselves. Still, it remained the one thing that she ever deigned to accept from the man. With the exception of a book about modern human culture; which she took simply to read up and familiarize herself with the goings on outside of the marches. When done, she promptly handed it back to the man; who seemed surprised that she had no desire to keep it.

It was a strange thing, because later in life, Svetlana would look back and realize that she couldn't even remember what the man had looked like. Whether he had been attractive, dark haired or fair haired, blue eyed or brown eyed. She remembered only that he had not been especially tall and that his complexion was fair. She always found this fascinating, as most of the Lavellan clan were deeply tanned from their time spent under the sun. Only her elder brother Cillian was in possession of fairer skin and that was a result of his mostly being under cover with his study of magic, and the like.

More to the point, Svetlana could not remember if she had been at all attracted to him. She supposed herself most attracted to his attentions. As an older woman, she would direct a scoff back in the direction of her younger self; for not having recognized the obviousness of the situation. There she was, an adolescent of her fourteenth year, running about the treetops bare-footed and bare-breasted and wondering why this human male returned near every other week just to follow her around and gawp at her. What a fool she had been. And how very stupid to not have realized that of course where there is one of their kind, there is most likely more to follow.

It happened just a few days short of her fifteenth birthday. Svetlana had been freeing the carcass of a rabbit from one of the snares, when she heard the distinctive sound of snapping twigs and undergrowth behind her. She supposed it the man, for he was a habitually clumsy creature and paused in what she was doing, facing the direction from which the noise had come.

It was not however the man who emerged, but several others whom she had never before seen. Wearing uniforms she did not recognize and carrying weapons that the other funny little man had never dared to front up with. Their eyes went to her immediately and with such intensity of approach that Svetlana felt the need to do something she had never before reason to do and untucked the halves of her dress; bringing them back up over her breasts and tying the cord neatly at the back.

"There she is." One of them was saying, his smile curling up underneath the untrimmed edges of his dark moustache. "Just like he said."  
Svetlana remained rooted to the spot, feeling great confusion wash over her. She glanced between each of the _shemlen_ , trying to figure out if one of them was her visitor. He didn't appear to be there. She counted the number of men currently staring up at her; that strange, hungry look dominating their eyes in a way she had never felt before. Six. There were six.

They were big. Tall. Much sturdier than she was. Elves were naturally finer boned than humans as was and Svetlana knew she was strong enough to hold her own in a fight but she had never been in a confrontation with  _shemlen_ before. The Lavellan clan were discouraged from doing such things, given the delicate balance between Elvish and human relations out in the great wider world. They were in fact encouraged to remove themselves from such situations where possible; so as to not make things more difficult for their city brethren.

Svetlana thought such a move very wise for now, as she did not know these men. Only that they were armed, they outnumbered her and they had that strange, unsettling look in their eyes.

She left the rabbit were it was hanging, for it was no worthwhile exchange for her life and turned and hopped down the embankment behind her. She landed, heavy footed as always in the dirt on the far side and nipped into the underbrush, ignoring the calls at her back. The Keeper would need to know about them of course but such a conversation made Svetlana's stomach feel tight with turmoil. She'd never spoken to anyone about the man and his weekly visits. It had been her little secret, something she tucked away into the corner of her mind simply to have and to hold of her own volition. The Dalish shared too much with one another. There were some things she simply felt that she needed to keep to herself. And now, it was likely to get her in a whole world of-

She heard the sound perhaps a fraction of a second before blinding pain ruptured her lower leg. Such was the force of it, that she tumbled straight onto her belly; gouging her stomach through her dress from where she had glanced upon a stone. She twisted about, eyes blurred with tears to find the shaft of an arrow protruding from her calf. The arrow head had gone all the way in and she dared not attempt to wrench it out, aware of the damage it would cause.

Shock held her much for the part inert as it was. She had taken her fair share of bumps, scrapes, lashes and contusions in the few years she had been hunting, but never before had she been shot. Not deliberately, not like this. It was then she realized the very obvious nature of what was occurring. She was being hunted. She was prey. To these humans, she was no different as was a rabbit to the Dalish.

She wanted to run but the pain was crippling. She staggered perhaps a few feet, dizzy headed and confused, unsheathing the axe she most readily used when bringing down larger game and preparing herself for the fight she knew was coming. If she thought them a fair opponent however, she was gravely mistaken. Another arrow whipped from the bushes ahead of her, the tip burying itself in her upper shoulder with a force not unlike being punched. It staggered her, slammed her back into the trunk of the tree behind her. Time enough for the hunters to emerge from the brush and cage her right in the centre of the circle they made with their bodies.

"Why you runnin', honey? We just want to have ourselves a little fun. Right, fella's?" The one with the bow cajoled her, keeping the next arrow primed and ready to fly. With her shoulder run through, Svetlana couldn't get the double handed grip she needed on her axe and surrendered it in favour of the knife at her hip instead. It wasn't an arrow that stopped her dead this time, but a punch to the jaw from the man nearest her. It sent her toppling, screaming as the shaft of the arrow buried in her calf snapped off; tearing open the injury further. Fire coursed through her jaw, evidence enough that the bone had been snapped through. She had little time to dwell on it, because they were on top of her now; one of the men snapping the shaft off of the arrow in her shoulder, all for want of tugging down the front of her dress.

"Ain't that a sight? All that runnin' around in the woods sure as shit keeps 'em prime." His hands found her breasts and squeezed, ignoring her repeated shrieks to stop. Some of the others watched, one taking a hold of her wrists and pinning them to the ground above her head. The man above her reached down and started wrenching apart all the various buckles and whatnot about his waist. "Keep the bitch steady."

" _Lethallen!!_ " Svetlana screamed, twisting and pushing at the tight grip that pinned her wrists down. Pain stabbed through her shoulders, her face, her body. The mens' laughter resonated about her, until it verily vibrated through the air with the resonance of a thunderstorm. She could barely differentiate the pounding of her heart; it bombarded through her ears like someone striking at the belly of a drum. "HELP!! _SHEMLEN_!! There are _Shemlen_ , please!!"

A palm glanced off of her already throbbing face and the fear turned swiftly then to anger. She struck out with her legs, riding through the pain from where the arrow head was buried beneath the flesh of her thigh. Giving it everything she had, though she felt she had so very little left in her reserves.

"Let me go! Let me GO, you fucking son of a bitch!!" She yelled, shrieking yet further still as the man atop her succeeded in getting himself free and then reached up to between her legs. Her found the fabric of her smalls, squeezed about them and then ripped it off of her hips with enough force that they were temporarily suspended. She tried once more to throw free the arms that kept her wrists pinned down, but the _shemlen_ had all their weight pressed into the ground. They were laughing. Some of them were smoking, sharing drinks from a small container. This was... sport to them. She was less than an animal; an amusement as soulless as... cards or a... what did they call them? Theatre show? Where everything was fake; propped up for the inspection and entertainment of others. She wasn't... _real_ to them.

Svetlana wasn't sure where she found the strength. Indeed, such questions would haunt her mind until the day she was an old woman. The man had tried to settle himself between her legs, but she was young, fit and Dalish. Flexible and with a strength that very few of her clan could explain. Adrenaline was enough, she supposed, to twist her one uninjured leg up and around; delivering the heel of her foot directly into the chin of the man atop her. Without pause, she rolled backward on her spine, struck the same foot out towards the man that held her wrists. He staggered back, bringing both palms out to defend himself. Svetlana didn't wait. She pitched to her side, scrambled a moment to find purchase and then pushed through the pain. Practically threw herself face first into the surrounding shrubs before the others could react.

If her legs had been in any state to endure it, she might have awayed into the trees to Branch Run, as members of the clans called it. There was nothing for it now however and she did what little she was capable of. She supposed still that it was quite the fastest she had ever run. Every moment she feared that another arrow would zip through the undergrowth and find its mark upon her skin but she surmised that they must not have been able to get a solid shot with all the trees about.

The pain and blood loss were slowing her down however and she was losing her bearings. She could hear the sounds of them chasing her still, adamant it seemed to continue their fun and perhaps more the insistent on it for her having escaped. Svetlana's lungs, mind and body burned without respite. She needed to rest, to find the camp but she couldn't remember just how far it was...

Something loomed ahead of her, wreathed in the vines of surrounding trees and near but surrendered to the elements. The black, weather worn statue by which her clan had passed a few months earlier; that to whom they would always reside to the back of. To whom the Keeper told stories of warning and betrayal and trickery.

Fen'Harel. The Dread Wolf.

Svetlana could not waste time with supposed'ness or what'am'I'thinking's and made her decision post haste. She had strength not to reach her encampment and needed to hide. She could not climb one of the trees. The statue was set upon a stone block, something she felt she was capable of hauling herself on top of with minimal effort. She wasn't certain how much she believed in regards to Fen'Harel but she could only hope he was more the likely to protect a descendent of the people than he was the _shemlen_ whom had oppressed them. What did the Keeper say though? _He cared nothing for the Elvhen and... something about hugging himself and giggling_ - _Oh who gives a fuck, just get your arse up there, NOW!!_

Svetlana hit the stone block on which Fen'Harel was supported; the blow taking most of the wind out of her. She pushed it to the side, grabbing hold of the Dread Wolf's forepaw and using it as a means to pull herself up. The stone was warm to the touch, having been exposed to the sun for much of the morning and the vines created additional purchase with which to aid her ascent. The shaft of the arrow was twisting and stabbing into her as it made contact with the statues side, but she didn't dare cry out and give away her position. With strength she never knew she possessed, she twisted her body up over the Dread Wolf's slouched back, using one of the vines to then ease herself onto the far side.

She dropped down, as gently as she was able and put her back tight to the statue. Blood ran in rivulets down her leg and shoulder and she knew she needed to stem the bleeding or she was not going to be able to stay awake long enough to make it to safety. She'd lost her knife in the previous scuffle and was forced to use her hands to tear away one of the strips of fabric that usually covered her breast. She made a thick pad from it, twisting it about the shaft of the arrow before ripping free then the other side of her dress. This she used to bind the swab in place, putting what pressure she could on the wound before tying it in place. She felt that this was the worst of her injuries, as it had been impacted by her fall and torn further still by her dash through the woods. The one in her shoulder she could do little for, never mind the terrible pounding throb to her already swollen jaw. Her brother and the Keeper could see to this if she were to make it back in one piece.

Svetlana froze, put her lips together as tight as she dared and breathed only through her nose. She could hear the men getting closer. They might have thought themselves to have been moving cautiously, but they were heavy footed even whence compared to her. Dried leaves and twigs crunched under their feet, in spite of their efforts to place their boots down with care.

"Another one of these fucking statues." One of them grunted, his voice muffled from what was likely a mouthful of food he'd taken the opportunity to stuff between his lips. She heard another of them scoff, as though in some manner of commiseration.

"I hear ya. Thing gives me the creeps." The hunters voice had taken on a strange, disconnected quality. Almost vague and, for lack of a better word, dreamy. "Got a fucking smug look on its face, like the damn things judgin' ya."

"It's a fucking dog, you idiot. Ain't judging shit." Another of them said, impatient likely about the turn their conversation had taken. Svetlana winced as something struck the front of the statue hard, causing the stone to dimly resonate. "See? Nothin' but a piece of rock the elves all probably dance naked around. Maker's balls, the shit the two of you come out with. Get a move on, already. The little bitch makes it back to camp, we'll have a whole ton of pissed off knife-ears to deal with."

Their path out of the clearing would bring them around to the far side of the statue, to where Svetlana could be seen crouching by the wolf's flank. She would need to maneuverer about to the left, passing in front of Fen'Harel's chest and into the space between his front paws. Amidst the pain, she spared a hopeful thought as to whether Fen'Harel was feeling particularly charitable that day and did not feel the need to make sport of the scared little Dalish girl that had foolishly taken respite beneath his metaphorical wings.

_Please_ , she whispered in her mind and immediately perished the remainder of the entreaty. She could feel the disapproving eyes of her sister and the Keeper scour the back of her neck, reminding her of the dangerous path on which she verged. After all, asking Fen'Harel for a favour was akin to asking a dragon not to set fire to you as you stole gold from between its front talons. Well, perhaps that was a poor metaphor, she conceded. Fen'Harel would, in fact, be more the likely to invite you to take the gold and then later turn up on your doorstep asking you for a favour of his own. Something innocent and innocuous no doubt, such as stealing a newborn infant from its crib, lathering it liberally with butter and then slapping it between a couple of pieces of honey toast bread. And then making you watch as he devoured it, just so as you could truly appreciate the feeling of your soul dying inside of you.

Fen'Harel was, so the legends told, hardly the most altruistic of the Gods. He banished the Elven Pantheon into the Beyond, along with the Old ones whom he had also betrayed and then spent the rest of eternity skulking the borders of the Fade, slurping up the souls of the dead and giggling with irrepressible glee. It was difficult to conceive of something so foul and as cruel as the Dread Wolf, taking a particular interest in the mortal predicaments of a Dalish elf. The very people who so unequivocally and vocally discredited him; who used his name to curse their enemies or as a disclaimer for the stubbing of any relevant body part upon a protruding corner.

Was asking him for help simply the equivalent of hurling oneself out of the cooking pot and into the fire below?

_Who gives a shit?!_ She shrieked in her mind, hunkered down in the most painful squat she'd ever had reason to maintain. Her leg burned with unimaginable pain, her shoulder roared into her nerve endings without reprieve and the side of her face had swollen to such a degree that she could see it from the edge of her vision. _I'm about to get myself raped and murdered by a bunch of Shemlen and here I am having a moral debate as to whether I should be asking a freaking statue for help?! The Dread Wolf may have cared nothing for the Elvhen people but surely he cares less for the fucking flat-ears!_

Who was to say whether he would take her up on any offer she might lay at his theoretical feet (thick as the physical irony of such a thing actually was). And if in one strange moment of mystic happenstance were to transpire and the Dread Wolf were to put his ephemeral lips to her ear, well... what could he truly ask of her that would be worse than what these men had planned?

_I know... you don't think much of us, Fen'Harel_ , she whispered, thinking it a very strange thing that even in her mind, her voice sounded to be uttered at a low cadence. Her muscles tensed as she listened to the men's footsteps crunch through the leaves nearby. Closing in on the rear of the statue. If they were to circle around it, they would probably see the blood she had left behind. Would put two and two together. But...

She was going to ask for his help, even if it was simply in staying awake long enough to get herself back to camp. Would have done so then and there if not for the thought that crossed her mind and made her halt in whatever entreaty she might have made. Not for fear of the Dread Wolf's reprisal but for something else. Something strangely out of place and ludicrously of all things, moral.

What right did she have to ask anything of him?

Why should he help? The Dalish had as little time for Fen'Harel as he apparently had for them. It was all very well for them to snort and sneer and deride the ancient figure behind his back, only then to then snivel and whine and offer flowers and gifts to keep him placated. The thought of asking favours, even metaphorical ones of a being that she had been just as equally guilty of denouncing and defaming put not a fear into her as she might have thought, but one of deepest shame.

She felt a hypocrite and this, above all else, was something she could not, as person, abide.

" _Thanks for... hiding me_." She whispered instead, ever so softly. Petting the palm of her hand against Fen'Harel's stone chiselled chest. " _You're not a bad sort, really. Let me know if I become a bother. I'll not keep you from your busy day of devouring the souls of the dead_."

It made her smile, to imagine that a malevolent trickster such as Fen'Harel might appreciate more the cheeky nature of her comment. At the very least, it should make a welcome change of pace to what was otherwise directed at him. No, if she was going to survive this situation, she was going to have to do it under her own steam. Self-reliance.

The thought was a proud and brave one and it held firm until the very second the hand closed about her foot.

"Gotcha, missy." Came the voice of the stubble faced man at the base of the statue. He wrenched hard, sending pain racing up through Svetlana's injured leg, into her spine and striking into the base of her brain like the head of a spear. She nearly passed out, the sensation was so intense but she fought back the darkness that launched itself at her, knowing if she gave in to it, she would die. She rallied what strength she had at her disposal and lashed downward with her left fist, with which she was dominant, giving it everything she had. It was a good strike, connecting with the mans big, rubicund nose and crunching the tissue with such force she actually heard it fracture. He recoiled, cupping a hand to his blood swathed upper lip and releasing his hold on Svetlana's leg.

She made good on the opportunity, twisting about and leaping over Fen'Harel's left leg and down into the sway of his far side. She hit the ground, made to break for the gap in the trees she was certain led back to her camp and realize that they had anticipated her movements all too well. They were hunters after all and she had all too easily fallen into the role of prey; something with which she was grossly unpractised.

They were waiting in the apron of the clearing. Three sets of bows levelled at her. She stared at them from beneath the tangles of her sweat drenched hair, panting. Wondering just what in the name of the Gods she could possibly do now. The man who had been on top of her earlier was approaching. His eyes looked hungrier than ever.

"Get the rest of that dress off and lie down." He said, in a voice which made it sound as though he were habitually accustomed to being obeyed. Svetlana wondered briefly if this was the case, or if the power he felt he had acquired in this situation was playing up to some inadequacy he perhaps felt in his everyday life. "Don't make this any more difficult than its gotta be."

_Could I take another arrow?_ She wondered. Genuinely. It seemed preferable to doing what they were asking. She started to shake, in spite of all her best efforts to try and be brave. The tears started, though she knew it would do no good. It was too much. She was too tired, too weak and too pained. She wrapped her arms about herself, curled in on herself like a ball.

She wasn't getting out of this. They were going to take her, right there on the ground and then they would kill her. It hadn't occurred to her that she would not be getting out of this situation untouched. To her, it was as absurd as the sun failing to rise in the morning. Such a thing simply could not happen. It would mean the end of all things.

"Please..." She begged and hated herself for it. She would rather have begged Fen'Harel and taken whatever dastardly consequences he might have levelled at her, then show belly to these despicable men. "Please, don't... I'm only fourteen... I've never even been with anyone... please, don't..."

"Lay down." He told her again and her face burned with humiliation, her heart pounding with despair. They didn't care. None of them cared. She was nothing to them, nothing. Just a little rabbit at the mercy of the hunt.

But so, it transpired, that the _shemlen_ were not the only hunters to grace the woods that morning.

Svetlana saw them long before her attackers did. The roiling, flexing rise and fall of their shoulders; heads lowered, hackles raised, teeth bared. The snarling rippled through the air like a verdant hum. Their fangs glimmered white and stark as a startling contrast to the pink of their gums, their large paws edging out ahead of them and into the sun dappled floor of the clearing.

Wolves. Five of them to be exact. Their fur was as black as the water on a moonless night and their bodies looked to be as strong and as resilient as that of their more affluent competitor, the great bear. Perhaps they had smelt the blood, she could not say. They might in fact have been stalking her long before the men sought to stake their claim. It could explain why they were approaching in such an aggressive manner. With this much opposition, wolves were more the likely to skulk away, rather than risk a violent competition.

It wasn't... right, Svetlana knew. And felt some small sense of relief for the fact that the men stood between her and the clearly, rather churlish looking beasts.

"That's not normal." One of the men observed, which seemed a statement far too intelligent for a brute such as him to be making. "Wolves don't normally come up on folks like this."

The man standing closest Svetlana took up his bow and reached back to remove an arrow from the quiver at his back. It was apparently, provocation enough for the wolves to make their move and they lunged from the under crop of the surrounding trees with a savagery Svetlana had only ever witnessed but the once.

When she was a child, her mother had taken her out for a simple task of collecting game from the snares. They had come upon a wolf pack, which had taken up shop near a niche in the surrounding cliffs. They were likely doing well on the prey they were pilfering from the snares, as wolves were sometimes prone to scavenging when needs won out. As it seemed it had, on this occasion, as some of the females of the pack were caring for their young; still too small to hunt and fend for themselves. When Svetlana and her mother had gotten close, the pack had all but catapulted themselves at the curious elves and might have torn them to pieces if they had been within biting distance. Svetlana's mother had of course been far too clever and learned of the woods to risk such a thing, and they observed from the trees above. She used the opportunity as a lesson to teach her daughter about the do's and do nots of the woods.

It was this self-same aggression that Svetlana saw now in the wolves and she briefly wondered as to whether there might have been youngsters nearby. No... it was the wrong time of year for that. The cubs would have be grown and capable of taking care of themselves.  
Why then? Wolves aren't stupid. They are taking such a pointless, unmitigated risk!

She had little time to tarry on the thought. The first wolf was taken out of the air by the arrow of one of the hunters. This would ordinarily be enough to send the rest of the pack skittering, but not a one of them so much as hesitated and continued their charge as though nothing had in fact happened. The second wolf leapt high, scratching dried leaves and dirt up into the air in its wake and latched its jaws to the arm of the man who Svetlana had broken the nose of earlier. He went down, screaming for just the split of a second and then his cries were drowned out as the third wolf sunk its teeth into his neck and ripped his throat apart in one uncompromising wrench of its powerful head.

Arrows were splitting the air but the hunters had lost their composure and only the one of the projectiles found its mark. The wolves came too quickly and too unexpectedly. The man closest Svetlana was knocked to the ground, arms thrown up over his head as the great beast tore and snarled at the leather armour on his wrists; attempting to get through to his face. None yet had made their move on Svetlana, but she had not allowed them the opportunity to do so. The moment they had charged, she had already been edging backwards, making her way towards Fen'Harel's statue. In a moment of irony too thick for her to even want to grasp, she eased herself back up onto the stone block and, with much grunting, sobbing and nose running, climbed to the highest point she could muster; the back of the Dread Wolf's neck.

She used what remained of her strength to wrap her arms about the wolf's ears, keeping her injured leg pressed tight to the column of his neck as though she were riding him. Gods, if her sister could see her now; bloodied, half naked and all but humping the Dread Wolf's head... She'd sooner take her chances with the wolves and the _Shemlen_. At least it would be over with quickly.

When first she heard it, she wondered if she had in fact imagined it. Whether the fear and blood loss had finally taken hold of her brain and was playing tricks on her. She lifted her head, looked out over the sea of bloodied, snapping, struggling bodies and strained every muscle in her ears.

No, it was there. Someone... someone was calling her name. Calling from somewhere close by.

_"Da'Hara!"_

Svetlana stared down at the back of the Dread Wolf's neck; far the more befuddled as a result of her wounded stated and queried: "Was that you?"

The statue did not reply. And of course, it made no sense for Fen'Harel to address her as ' _Da'Hara_.' Only members of her clan did.

" _DA'HARA!! DA'HARA_ IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, CALL OUT!! TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE!!"

She recognized it now that the voice was moving closer. It was... Dhavaro. And though it wasn't a thing she ought to have found perplexing, she did in fact think it odd that her usually drunken, unconscious brother be the one to come to her rescue. Given the time of day she would have more the likely expected him to be passed out on the ground behind one of the lean to's. In the company of a pile of his own vomit.

"DHAVARO!!" She called back, feeling that questioning the logic of his being there was utterly pointless. Looking a gift horse in the mouth at a time like this? "DHAVARO I'M HERE!! THE STATUE OF FEN'HAREL!!"

His voice came from closer now, from somewhere off to the left. She could see branches parting as he bashed his way through the canopy. Given the state of his health, she knew he was in no way able to Branch Run, so it surprised her further still to see him yet emerge from the top of the trees; dashing out across one of the thicker branches with such certainty she could barely believe it was him. His downturned eyes looked positively frantic as he took in the sight below.

"Shit... shit. Just... don't move. Don't _move_ , Svetlana! Whatever you do, you just... hold on tight to that statue. I'm coming to get you!"

She nodded tearfully, most of her composure having broken at seeing him. He looked... sober, which was a welcome relief. It had to have been the first time in recent history and it was yet one more of those strange, universal coincidences that seemed to have followed her all throughout this terrible day. She could only suppose that all the bottles in the camp had run dry and in his desperation, Dhavaro had taken to trolling the surrounding woods; looking for something fermented that he could upend into his body. Whatever the case, she was ever so glad so see him.

Dhavaro took but a moment to plot out his approach and then twisted about, bracing the sides of his feet and hands against the tree and sliding to the ground. If he acquired any splinters in the descent, he made no mention of the pain and broke swiftly into a run, sprinting bare footed through the now blood spattered expanse of the clearing. One of the wolves saw him and lifted its head briefly to snarl from the throat in which its muzzle had been previously buried. Apart from this, they paid him little mind. The hunters were far too preoccupied with trying to free themselves and or flee the situation entirely and had no thought for the Elvhen interloper.

Dhavaro reached the statues side in what must have been record speed, so far as he was concerned and was up atop the stone block so fast that Svetlana didn't even see him vault it. His eyes, usually cast over from drugs and alcohol looked clear and he stood firm and strong on his feet; his focus clearly on maintaining his balance. He held his arms out to her, his face blazing with a fierce determination she hadn't yet seen in some months.

"Come on, baby. I got ya. Jump on down. I won't let you fall."

In that moment, Svetlana knew intrinsically that she could take him at his word. Though she might not trust him so much with things in the future, in this moment she knew that he would not fail her. She loosed her grip on Fen'Harel's ears, pushing back as gently as she could and dropped down into her brother's waiting arms. She was sobbing then, safe in the knowledge that he was here and she was going to be okay. What was more the astonishing however, was that Dhavaro seemed to be crying as well. He gripped to her as though she were a newborn child, jumped from the plinth of the statue and dove into the thicket of the surrounding trees as though they posed as little resistance as a childs' entreating fingertips. Their sobs intermingled and his relief, such as hers, was palpable.

"It's okay. I've got you. I've got you. Everything's going to be okay now. Everything's going to be okay."

And it was true, she may have survived. Her wounds, though severe would heal in time. Those of her body at least. But something had been irreparably shattered at the hands of the _Shemlen_ in the woods that day. In the weeks following, when traders from Fereldon approached the clan to exchange goods, they were met with natural suspicion and apprehension. Upon questioning, they reported knowing nothing of the men who had attacked one of the Dalish in the woods. It was of little consolation to the Keeper and less still to Svetlana and her family.

Svetlana for her part, could not bring herself to approach. The very sight of a human sent that same awful trembling that overtook her in the clearing back through the gallows of her body. To her it felt as though she had been sitting comfortably on the back of a supposedly tame horse, only to have the beast then buck and rear and throw her off to trample into the dust.

So, when the traders came, Svetlana went to the trees. To the tents or to the river to attend to matters that were of no importance whatsoever. She stayed as far from the humans as she was able. Her trembling often did not subside until they were a good hour gone. She broke many a good mug, that way.

It was two months following the events of that dreadful day. Svetlana was still nursing her wounds and was resting by the riverside, soaking her feet as two other girls from the clan bathed in the water. It was their indignant shrieks that alerted her to the mans presence.  
He had appeared on the far side of the river, looking not to the pair of affronted women in the water before him but at Svetlana, separated from him by the gently flowing water. Though once she had considered him about as threatening as a big, luridly coloured bumble bee, Svetlana was subject once then to the sickness that had wormed its way into her body and the trembling started once more. No matter how she tried to tightly fist her hands and push it back, the tremors had life of their own and paid no heed to the want of her mind.

"Let me speak with you!" The man called, his voice taking on a hint of desperation Svetlana thought to be quite genuine, though not the least bit enticing. She was surprised that he recognized her, given that she had recently cut all of her hair off and wore it now short and brushed back from her face. (Less the likely to be grabbed that way, she had reasoned at the time, purposefully ignoring her sisters protests as she took to her locks it with a blunt pair of scissors).

The girls in the water, glanced back and forth between the man and Svetlana as though a mildly interesting game of catch was occurring. The rumour mill would spin voraciously at this rate and Svetlana had had quite enough of being the talk of the clan these days and so made the decision to cross the river and be done with the whole garish affair.

The man was florid in his apologies, all but dropping to his knees dramatically as a means of expressing it. He was a researcher, he had explained, once they were out of earshot of the river. A researcher from a University in Val Royeaux. His particular field of study had been around the Dalish and their mission to preserve as much of the original Elvhen culture as possible. He was fascinated by them, he professed. Their culture, their lifestyle, their unapologetic love for the natural world and uninhibited means of engaging with it. He had felt there was no better means to better acquaint himself with these wonderful beings, than to instil himself in their world. Get close to one, get to understand them better.

He had loved her, he said, from the moment he had seen her. Had seen that look in her eyes; untainted by the harsh realties of the human world of Thedas. He had seen a purity in her, something wholesome and untouched and yet so wild and natural in the same breath. His research became secondary to his appreciation of her; his wonderment in simply being permitted to be in her presence. It humbled him when she deigned to spend time with him, to permit him glimpses still into this secret and private world the Dalish so dutifully guarded.

The men who had attacked her, he confessed, had entered the woodlands because he had succumbed to the effects of alcohol one night in the tavern of the township in which he had been saying. He was drunk and joyous and overwhelmed in his experiences and wished to share them with anyone who would listen. The gathering of men, on return from some military expedition had been all too eager to lend an ear. He hadn't realized at the time what their intentions had been and had no idea they had entered the Free Marches at all. Not until three of them had returned, injured and quite unabashed concerning their reasons as for being in the woods that day.

He was so relieved, he said, to see what she was all right. She struck him then, with as much spite as she could muster. Tears spilt out, though it was anger to which her voice lent itself, not sadness.

"What was untouched, has now been sullied thanks to your careless words." She said and saw still the reverence in his eyes, to hear her speak perhaps the first proper sentence she had ever spoken to him. It made her angrier, that for everything she had endured he still looked at her with that stupid doe eyed infatuation. As though she were some fluffy, pea-brained chick chirping about in a bird pen. "I know now why we shun the company of the _shemlen_. You _take_ from us. You took from the moment you set your eyes on me. And I was fool enough to let you. We are not yours to possess; not with your hands, your bodies, or your insatiable, lust filled gaze!"

She felt the tears all but dry on her cheeks, her rage with this idiotic man taking precedence above all else. It felt good, the anger. It abated somewhat the incessant trembling in her limbs.

"You come back here again, and I will kill you, _shemlen_. Do you understand? I will _KILL_ you!" She shoved him in the chest, hard enough to knock him clean off of his stupid curly toed feet. He landed on his back, the pain of the assault seeming secondary to the words she had levelled at him. He gaped at her, looking lost and helpless from across an endless void. "You get up and _get out_!! Don't ever come back!"

And so, Svetlana put her back to him and in turn, put her back to the race of man. She ignored his cries for her to understand, to forgive him. To take comfort that his asinine ramblings to the gathered thugs in the public house had been out of respect and adulation for her. She would have none of it. It was all the proof she needed that the world beyond the Free Marches, the world of man was not one in which she ever wished to dwell.

Svetlana Lavellan was a woman whom many, in the coming years, would recognize as being of extraordinary courage and consternation. If they were to hear rumour of how her fingers once trembled at the mere mention of the _Shemlen_ , they would certainly denounce it as unkind slandering. For she was a person who held true to things, who challenged herself. And who, for the longest while, lacked the conviction most everyone thought she possessed in plenty, to return to the saddle and run the risk of once again being thrown to the dirt.

**~X~**


	2. The Vallaslin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What does being modest get anyone? Point is, we were built the same way. And now you're just going to let some age old 'possibly wrong' tradition shit all over that? Plant some mystical flag on your face, all in the supposed name of 'reverence?' Of 'respect?'" He made that self same noise of cheek muted disgust, lowering his eyes now to check over his drying nails. Giving them an errant tap here and there to see whether or not they would mark. "What about 'our' choice? Our individuality? The right for our faces to make their own impression? Be their own canvas? We're either branded in silence or we're cast out as 'cowards'."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Dragon Age Inquisition and its characters, situations, storylines and heartbreaks do not belong to me. No remuneration is made through the plucking out of this little story. Or the invariable plucking at heart strings.
> 
> A/N: One of the things I have seen pop up a few times when looking over some of the Lavellan/Solas fandom is repeated references to (SPOILER ALERT) the hunter/prey dynamic. Wherein, Solas is referred to as the Wolf and Lavellan is represented as the Halla, or, in one such piece I saw, a rabbit. (Of course, most likely a reference to the fact that elves are referred to in a slightly derogative fashion as rabbits).
> 
> I would like it to go on record, that my nickname of Da'Hara for Svetlana did not come about because I was consciously angling for this dynamic. (I did in fact come up with it before I found out that elves were sometimes referred to as rabbits in the game. Imagine my shock when Svetlana got called this very thing at the Winter Palace!) This would suggest that I did in fact see Solas in the more dominant/aggressive role in a relationship and I honestly do not. Just as I do not see the Inquisitor character as being 'innocent' or indeed 'doe-like.' 
> 
> I actually just wanted to give Svetlana a nickname which suggested she was sort of diminuitized by her clan in a familial manner and pay tribute to some weird character ticks she has. Naming her after a hare came to mind because of how I designed her ears and how her eyes looked a lot like a hares. Then the little chewing motion came to mind and, well... kind of went from there.
> 
> Seems a weird thing to defend myself for, because to each their own if they wish to explore that sort of 'Predator/Prey/Lion lies down with the lamb' dynamic in their own interpretation of the story but I wanted to make it clear that this on my part was not at all the intent.
> 
> Alas, once again I have dribbled on far too much. Please, cast my injurious ramblings aside and proceed onward to the meaty centre of the story. Bon voyage, my freaky darlings and enjoy!
> 
> WARNING: This story, clearly, contains spoilers for Dragon Age Inquisition and in particular the Lavellan/Solas romance. If any of this is likely to come as a shock to you, then for the love of God, leave this page, power up your game and FINISH THE DANG THING. Don't go looking for fanfiction before finishing the game! You'll ruin it for yourself! Golly!

_**The Free Marches: 9:28 Dragon...**   _

A sign means nothing unless one knows how to interpret it. 

A lesson Svetlana Lavellan soon learned upon the arrival of her seventeenth birthday. The year in which she finally, after much cuticle rendering anticipation, was to receive her _Vallaslin._

An auspicious time among the Dalish and predicated most usually upon the unique circumstances of the individual; moreso than the specific rolling about of ones birthday. One adolescent elf may, of course, be more mature than the next. Svetlana, though considered most unassuming by the elder members of her family, was viewed more favourably by the Keeper and might indeed have been encouraged to undertake the ritual blood tattooing a year earlier if circumstances permitted it. Illness had however prevented her from doing so (nothing more exciting then a poorly timed and rather embarrassing case of stomach upset) and as such, she was forced then to wait longer still, for a date deemed suitable by the Keeper.

Like most Dalish clans, the Lavellan tribe were extremely conscientious regards the traditional means of 'going about' things. Superstitious in such a way as to be rivalled alone by fishermen, the Dalish would scarcely make any major decision without first observing the supposed 'signs of the Gods'. The signs of which were interpreted by the clans mages; the Keeper and their apprentice.

Either the Keeper or the First would spend any number of days divining the trees, rivers, the dirt and Gods knows, possibly the ants and the insides of their own handkerchief's (Svetlana supposed) for that unspoken yet ever so important 'confirmation' as to what date would be most fortuitous for the young Elves to enter the woods and begin their meditation. The ritual meditation of which preceded the application of the _Vallaslin_ was not only vital but integral to the Keeper deciding just what form the _da'len's_ blood writing would take.

As such, it was not only the date and time of which was important but that the date and time were _suited_ to the individual undertaking the task. This in turn was impacted by any number of variables; from an unexpected change in the seasons, to the Halla suddenly deciding to congregate to one side of the camp as opposed to another. Even the onset of one's blood cycle (to which Svetlana had been so injuriously introduced at the age of twelve and so startled by that she had fainted on the spot and was summarily discovered with her stained underclothes about her ankles) was to have a say, and the Keeper would have to be informed as to when the blood was most likely to... ahem, arrive.

As if this was not ceremony enough,there was the matter then of other consolidating and seemingly bizarre factors; birthdates, behaviour, personality, a pot that might drop and land on its left side, a cloud that blocked a certain constellation on a particular night, a shifting in the flow of the river. Mythal's breath, Svetlana would hardly have been surprised if the Keeper had followed her out to the woods one of these days and demanded to inspect the shape and circumference of her bowel movements. Needless to say, she dug a very deep hole when embarking on these particular 'expeditions'.

It seemed an inordinately exhausting process, so far as Svetlana was concerned and one of the myriad of reasons (magical talent, or lack thereof) why she had not tarried off down the path of the mage. Swinging things was far the simpler option to manipulating the delicate membranes of the Fade and who, really, wished to further complicate an already far too complicated life by looking for patterns in a caterpillars pubic hair?

As such, Svetlana Lavellan; considered by the Keeper of her clan to be wise beyond her years (summarily opposed as this was by most members of her family) was forced to spin her metaphorical wheels yet longer still. Others her age came, went and returned with the sacred markings woven into their faces like an ethereal weave through an otherwise plain tapestry. They seemed much more worldly to her now; though she knew them not to have performed any other tasks or deeds more spectacular than she herself. The girls did however seem more feminine to her now; more womanly. It was intolerable for a person such as Svetlana; one whom had little patience in abstaining from the things she wanted. She picked and chewed her nails more fervently than usual these times, knowing full well that haranguing the Keeper into making her decision was less likely to hasten matters so much as it was to see her limping away with a red mark shelved neatly behind the ear. (It would have hardly been the first time).

She did however use the time productively; sharpening her skill set and developing her muscles in accordance with the promise she had made to herself the year past. To get stronger; so that she would never once again be overpowered such as she had been by the _shemlen_ in the forest. To be able to stand on her own two feet, without the necessity of someone else being required to swoop in for the rescue. Having so much time to invest in training and lifting and hunting meant that by the time her seventeenth birthday had approached, Svetlana was able to stand toe to toe with most other male members of the clan in a physical bout and often gain the upper hand. She knew she had her little 'peculiarity' to thank in most part for this, in spite of how hard and how consistently she trained. After all, how reasonable was it that a five foot tall Elf who likely weighed about as much as a sketch of herself, would have in out-arm-wrestling some of the stronger male hunters?

She put her condition to good use, taking out her frustration by sparring with some of the more self-assured boys in the clan. There was nothing quite like seeing an arrogant smile slump off of their once salaciously confident faces when they realized that Svetlana's petite statue was but a front for her otherwise freakish strength. It won her a modest handful of admirers and, on one extremely unexpected and impulsive occasion, a lover. Which seemed a fitting means to bide ones time, she supposed. Not all skills were based in combat after all. And those of the figurative bedroom were that much more fun to indulge and keep ones mind and body occupied. A great stress reliever, so long as her elder sister were to remain in the dark about it. Svetlana knew she would not approve of her 'slutting about', given her very strong and very vocal opinions concerning the preserving of oneself for the right person. So, as with most things concerning her sister, Svetlana found it easier to acquiesce and do what she wished to do in the shadow. (What wasn't known, wasn't likely to hurt one, now was it?)

A month out from her seventeenth birthday, Svetlana was approached by Deshanna Istimaethoriel whilst she was assisting with the emptying of the fishing nets. The mornings haul had been plentiful, for which Svetlana was vocally enthusiastic; given that her favourite meal was fresh fish and she had been near jubilant in filling the buckets with their flapping, water dewed bodies. The Keeper waited patiently, such was her nature, and walked then with Svetlana to a gathering pool of the river to wash the smell of fish from her hands.

"Cillian and I have been speaking,  _Da'Hara_." The Keeper said, for she, like the rest of the clan, had taken to referring to Svetlana by her childhood nickname of ' _Little Hare_ ' and scarcely referred to her as anything other.

Svetlana paused in what she was doing and turned the entirety of her attention to Deshanna. Cillian was not only her brother, of course but the recently instated apprentice to the Keeper and so news of their having discussed her was of course of immense importance. She did her utmost to pretend as though she didn't feel the tide dragging the inset of her dress down into the water and out behind her like a fishes tail.

"Based on the balancing of the signs, we feel that the eighth day of _Cassus_ will be most fortuitous for you." Deshanna stated, and smiled to see the widening of Svetlana's already slightly protuberant eyes in response.

It was hard to say whether it was anticipation or anxiety that Svetlana felt (for the application of the _Vallaslin_ was notoriously painful and must, of course, be silently endured) but she knew quite certainly that she was relieved above all else. It had been such an arduous wait this past year, watching the others of her age taking about with their new 'adult' responsibilities and seeming 'grown up' awareness. She ever so desperately wanted to catch up and step out and away from her childhood. Away, primarily, from the stringent and oftentimes abrasive stipulations of her sister.

"Ah, _Hahren_. And here I thought you had gone and forgotten about little old me." Svetlana quipped, her mouth forming into a crooked smile which favoured the right hand side of her lips to the near detriment of the left. It was a habit she had formed when she was younger; when some of her teeth became loose and painful after toppling backwards out of a moving _Aravel_. "Any longer and Loughlin might have overtaken me."

It wasn't the most courteous of responses but Deshanna Istimaethoriel was hardly the most traditional of Keepers. Her smile didn't waver as she stepped down onto the riverbed; wading out into the water to alight to Svetlana's side. She reached out to pluck a fish scale from where it had affixed itself to the girls brow, giving her a somewhat kindly pet to the side of the jaw as she flicked it away.

"Your sister is right about perhaps one thing where you're concerned," Deshanna said and Svetlana suppressed a chuckle in hearing the very slight disdain mar her tone. "You are extraordinarily impatient, Svetlana Lavellan. You're like a dam straining ever at its bonds; pushing ever forwards with all that caged power sending the seams to buckling."

She felt perhaps it might have been a subtle rebuke, for her family were often chiding her for being in a rush and lacking attention and so she lowered her head as a mark of contrition.

"You think I am chastising you." Deshanna said, her voice lilting slightly with amusement. "Rest easy, _Da'Hara_. Impatience is not always a sin. You are strong _because_ you are driven. I see that you are the kind who will not rest easy when you see there is work to be done. A boon to all those around you, but perhaps a bane so far as your own self-worth is concerned. Curtail such urges into short, sharp and fervant bursts and there will be no limit as to what you are capable of achieving."

Svetlana looked to Deshanna; her dark hair bedecked with strands of silver, her handsome face with its forest green _Vallaslin_ still lovely even in the sunset years of her life. Even the seemingly careless manner in which she elevated the hem of her robe above the gently lapping curls of the water suggested an awareness of things Svetlana could never suppose herself ever capable of understanding. In her Keeper's eyes, she saw an understanding insurmountable. She could never hope to be so wise. The Keeper had likely forgotten more things than she, Svetlana, would ever know.

Her words however, had been kind and Svetlana held them to the bonds of her memory like a city noble might clutch a jewel deep into the lines of their hand. They lent her still a sense of empowerment, of reassurance. Something her sister was wont to offer freely, for reassurance in her mind was something to be offered as a reward, rather than as incentive. It kept Svetlana feeling modestly optimistic, seeing her over the hump of the new month and finally, at long last, onto the eighth morn of _Cassus_.

She remembered all too well, the waking the morning of. Lying atop her bedroll; for the night preceding had been unbearably hot and staring at the meeting join of the canvas above her head. It had been a most peculiar dream that had wed itself to her mind during the night. Little surprise, for she had been somewhat anxious and fitful, given what was due to transpire during the course of the day, but food for thought nonetheless.

She had been standing at the base of a mighty cliff, composed entirely of segmented pieces of rock. Some pieces were so big they seemed fit to blot out the very sun. Others, small enough she might grasp them in her fist; if each of the edges were not sharp enough to cut her from every which direction.

She was there, hands pressed to the shifting, buckling wall; attempting all at once to hold it together and to keep it standing. Smaller pieces of shifting debris fell about her at every moment and the enormity of that which was pressing down upon her seemed more ludicrous and terrifying by the second. A crowd stood just out of sight behind her shoulders and she wished to be able to turn to them and shout for their assistance. But she dare not remove her attention from the mighty wall barely held at bay by her palms.

And then, but an imperceivable shift and the larger boulders composing the midsection came crumbling down. Svetelana awoke then, dappled with sweat; condensation perhaps from the nature of the dream itself as much as from the humidity of the already warm day. She lay there for some time, the back of her palm pressed to her forehead and mused as to what such a dream might entail. For it was a sign, surely. To come at the time by which she was now entering adulthood, it could scarcely be anything other. Gods above, now she was _thinking_ like her sister and such a thing simply would not stand.

If one could be choosy about their nocturnal entertainments, she would have much preferred some tawdry, lurid omen of being swept into a sun dappled grove by a tall, handsome man and verily routed in such a way as to remind her of all the virtues of being a woman. But no. Had to be some obscure, though nigh likely reference to her coagulated feelings of stress.

Though what in the least she had to be stressed about, who could imagine?

" _Andaran atish'an_ ," Her sister called, drawing Svetlana's attention up and away from the freshly toasted piece of honey drenched bread she'd been in the midst of nibbling on. She was perched by the edge of the camp, between two particularly interested lookin  _halla_ , hoping to see out the morning in a rare moment of peace and quiet. It had been a novelty for her, to be able to sit and quietly enjoy her breakfast, without the distraction of knowing she would need to be running off to either join the hunt or collect the rods, pots and nets for fishing. She was exempt from such duties today, given that it was her coming of age and she still felt the slightest tweak of guilt, for having sat there and merely observed the others heading out for the days gathering. Her sisters instinctually scolding tone did little to ease her nerves.

" _Ha, Assan_." She responded, wiping sticky fingers off on the sides of her dress before climbing to her feet and offering a respectful intonation of the head. Her elder sister, red hair aflame in the dawn glow and green eyes dancing as sharp as the edge of a newly whetted dagger, took a moment to look Svetlana over. Apparently, she found the image presented to her as perpetually wanting as it ever was and sighed, licking each of her thumbs and using them to slick errant strands of hair back behind Svetlana's ears.

"How you ever convinced yourself that such a style was flattering, I don't know, _Da'Hara_." She fretted, doing her utmost to smoothe the fiesty cowlick of Svetlana's hair back so that it rested mostly flush with her scalp. Having naturally failed at this endeavour, she turned instead to adjusting her dress; pulling the cross section tighter so as to appropriately ensconce her breasts within the fabric and then counterproductively tightening the waistband so as to add emphasis to the hips that she simply didn't have.

"Creators above... at least with your hair long you might have been mistaken for a woman. Now you could be a man showing far too much leg." She gave a backhanded slap to one of Svetlana's exposed legs, causing her to smartly withdraw it back behind the central panel of her dress. "Please tell me you've packed some appropriate attire for the ritual, _lethallin_?"

Svetlana nodded, forcing her tried and true smile of eternal patience upon her face. It was well practiced, given the past eight years of being predominately raised by a sister that left it to no uncertain terms that you were often far more trouble than you were invariably worth. She felt there was little point in retaliation, such as was the natural want it seemed of her elder brother Dhavaro, who could be found most often with his snifter near scraping the bottle of the nearest moonshine bottle or her younger brother Loughlin, who perceived a challenge in most every verbal exchange; no matter how seemingly innocuous.

It wasn't as though her sister had asked to be saddled with the raising of three younger siblings. This had been extraordinarily difficult on her, to say the least. Many of her own plans had been put on hold in favour of guiding the younger members of the family through their various life phases and the whatnot. Svetlana might not have considered herself a golden child to any degree (a certain young chap in the clan could certainly attest to that) but she had little interest in being a brat simply for the sake of being a brat. What did her pride matter, whence taking into account the unpayable debt that her brother and sister had had shelved upon them? In the least, she felt she might lighten their burden by being as cooperative and as sweet as patience would allow. Untenable as it was, some days.

"I've packed most everything I should need, given what I'm likely to up and come across out there during my trial." She confirmed, wondering all the while why she bothered with explaining this, as her sister was already going through her carry bag. She took a deep breath, worked hard to uncross her eyes, and continued. "... As you can, no doubt... see. So, um... I think I've got it all well covered. I'll be changing of course before I head out. Just planning on taking a quick wash before I dress and speak with _Hahren_."

Assan, apparently satisfied with everything she had dutifully examined within the bag, raised herself from a crouching position and gave Svetlana a very serious look. It still never ceased to take her by surprise; that her sister could look so astonishingly beautiful simply standing and casting an auspicious gaze in any one direction. There were men aplenty who would strut into a Great bears cave and strike its testicles with a wet cloth, for the simple chance of being with a woman such as her. And yet she had never found one with whom she had wanted to settle down. Svetlana supposed she simply wasn't the 'settling' type. She might have thought her interested in women, if not for offhand forays she had with some of the chaps who sniffed around long and persistently enough.

"Well, don't go dallying over your breakfast then. Get yourself washed and presentable and over to the Keeper before she suspects you're not taking this as seriously as you ought to be." Assan paused long enough to take out a white cloth from her sleeve and dab congealed honey from the corner of Svetelana's mouth. She chewed the corner of her own rosy lip in such a way that still managed to preserve her loveliness; whereas most other women would simply look crass. "Gods, you're a right proper mess of a thing. Why I bother with you, I shan't pretend to know."

She paused a moment, taking Svetlana's face between her hands and offered her a long suffering sort of look that seemed to speak of a sort of begrudging and much maligned love.

"Oh. You're not a bright one, are you _Da'Hara_? Still, never the worry. Perhaps today you will receive the sign that will guide you on the proper path and then I won't have to worry about you as much!"

_Worry for me? More for what the rest of the clan thinks of me and of you in turn_ , Svetlana thought to herself and then pondered as to whether it was a snide and trite thing to have indulged. She often considered herself to be above such petty ponderings but it was difficult when you had a sister who quite blatantly compared your intelligence to being equal to that of a hobbled nug.

Having chocked in the last of her breakfast, Svetlana made her way down to the riverbed; picking errant flecks of dried fruit from between her teeth with one wayward fingernail. She washed herself as though in a trance; paying little attention to what she was doing. To her detriment, as it were, for she gave herself a little nick upon the leg whence shaving and had to spend a few fitful moments splashing water up over it to clear the tendrils of blood away. Like most elves, Svetlana didn't grow much body hair (exempting the crown of the head and pubic region, quite naturally) and what light down did see fit to adorn itself to the pits of her arms and legs she deftly cleaved away with the small vanity razors of which they fashioned from iron bark. It was a practice perhaps frowned upon by most of the clan elders, but one of which the younger women in particular were wont to indulge. Generational, as such and considered quite salacious, whence shucking down ones hunting robe and slipping through dew bedecked canopy's of leaves to either stalk ones prey or to entwine with one's lover in a sun dappled clearing. Svetlana might not have installed herself firmly within the circle of young women of the Lavellan clan, but she was hardly exempt when it came to this particular vestige of vanity.

"Feeling nervous?" A voice called to her and Svetlana might have started to hear it; if in fact her nudity were something of which she had reason to be ashamed. Being Dalish, it was of course quite natural, though she hardly considered it proper to give this particular person a free pass and so pushed forward off of the rock on which she was perched and submerged herself up to her neck.

Vahiris, a hunter four years her senior, sighed to see her do such a thing; hands perched on his hips as he watched her tread water just out of reach of the shore.

"That was hardly generous, now was it?"

Svetlana shrugged one shoulder up out of the water, unconcerned with what Vahiris considered to be generous or not. "It occurs to me that if you wanted to continue seeing me as such, that you would perhaps have behaved more appropriately when last we parted."

Vahiris had the good grace to look at least a little ashamed of himself as he came to crouch by the rock upon which she had only moments ago been perching.

"Come on, Svette. We had fun. Did you really expect much more than that?"

She raised a brow at him, hardly able to believe that he had the nerve to attempt to play her like that. "If what we had meant so little to you, Vahiris, then why in Thedas would you concern yourself with seeing me naked? Hmm? You must have had quite enough of that by now, surely. Why even bother to show up here? It was just _fun_ after all. Was it not?"

Vahiris raised both hands in a show of defence, stretching up off of his haunches and back into a standing position. "Look I... didn't come here to fight. You're being too sensitive about this. I just came to wish you good luck is all."

Now _this_ was what Svetlana truly resented. He must think her brains had been stirred with a spoon if she were to not be able to pick up on what was ever so obvious about this ridiculous situation. It was one thing for her sister to insult her intelligence, (she was blood there go she had the right) but it was another matter entirely for those outside of her direct lineage to undermine her capacity for rational thought.  _Especially_ those persons who had gone around spouting off at the mouth about things that had occurred during otherwise considered to be private moments. Things of which had inspired the somewhat meaner-minded members of the clan to start referring to her as ' _Slut_ _lana'_.

"Of course. There's no better time to wish someone luck than when they're alone, unclothed and sponging off their genitals with a piece of cloth so small it makes a Qun's knickers look modest by comparison." Svetlana stared from beneath her brow, turning itinerant circles in the water simply as a means to keep herself amused whilst waiting for Vahiris to make tracks.

He scoffed at her words, much as she expected and gave her a look in turn that she didn't the least like. As though he had found her wanting in some way; some way that she hadn't the least considered feasible on her part.

"Well, you've got an awfully high opinion of yourself, haven't you?"

Now it was Svetlana's turn to feel embarrassed. Caught by the inferrence that she might very well have had tickets on herself, she stammered about far too long in searching for a comeback. Vahiris, on the stronger foot now, eradicated the need for a rebuttal entirely.

"Look, you know what? That's fine. Can't say it's all that surprising; given what those _shemlen_ did to you a few years back." He took a small rock up from the riverside and turned it idly in his fingers; glancing her a look of pure conentration as he did. "Word to the wise? You're not as hot as you seem to think you are."

He skipped the rock out over the water; its path bouncing along just slightly off to the right of Svetlana's now burning expression. She would have very much like to have snatched the rock out of the air and send it hurdling back into his smug face but she settled for what she felt was a most fair and diplomatic response in turn.

"You know, I hope the Dread Wolf fucks you up the ass on your next hunting trip." She snapped, thinking but a second later as he held up the handful of clothing that she had left by the rock; that she might have been better off shelving her pride and biting her tongue.

"Please. With _your_ history?" He pitched the clothes over into the river, smirking at Svetlana's angered shrieks as she immediately plunged her way through the water in a bid to reappropriate them. " _More'en_ likely happen to you, _da'len_."

" _Fenedhis lasa!_ " Svetlana cursed after him, wading through the now chest high water so as to snatch up her small clothes. The pale swathe of material floated at the top like some disused Orlesian shopping bag and no amount of determined wringing was going to get them dry to satisfaction. Ordinarily, she might have just lain both her clothes and herself out in the sun and let the natural warmth of the day do its work. But she hadn't time for that. Besides, it wasn't like she hadn't already needed to change.

To say that she was infuriated and embarrassed after her run in with Vahiris would be something of an understatement. She knew that there was never likely to be any love lost between them; they'd simply never had that manner of relationship. It had been sex, plain and simple (though she would have been kidding herself to wonder whether something more might have come from it). At the very least, she had hoped that someone with whom she had spent the better part of a number of bawdy afternoons entwined with beneath the more private bows of trees upon which the clan had stumbled, might owe her at least a modicum of respect.

The man to whom she had lost her maidenhead to boot. Something he knew very well, as she had been very the earnest with him concerning this. A concession of belly she now thought better of. Vahiris after all, was not merely a hunter of animals but for notches on his metaphorical belt. And there she had gone, head filled with dreams and rocks (just as her sister said) and let herself get metaphorically shit all over.

Svetlana hauled herself up out of the river and perched her dripping body down on the still warm surface of the rock. She cleaned her teeth using the small brushes Dalish whittled from ironbark and a firm mesh composed from Quillback bristles. Something she supposed the _shemlen_ might have turned their noses up at; none the aware that this was simply a slightly more primative version than what they themselves had propped up in their own boudoir's. What the paste was made from she couldn't say (it was not something with which she often concerned herself and was a matter more for the artisan's of the tribe, rather than the hunters). Svetlana cared only that it seemed to do the trick and keep the teeth of the Dalish in much better condition than she was certain most outsiders surmised them to be. The abrasive texture did often however leave her teeth feeling quite sore and sensitive; especially if she was eating something sweet. Which, if one knew Svetlana, was a common occurrence.

She knew she hadn't the time to sit about waiting for herself and or her clothing to dry, so she decided to walk back to the encampment as was. The sun would dry her off soon enough and then she could just go ahead and change into the garments she had set out for the ritual. The warm air felt good against her skin and she used her fingers to rake water out of her thick hair as she walked the short distance back to camp.

The encampment was, fortunately, not so busy at that time in the morning. Most of the hunters had already left and breakfast for those who remained was long over. The children had since been herded off into a secluded shady spot beneath some nearby trees for the days lessons. Those who were too young to participate remained with their mothers; with any luck, sleeping idly in their slings whilst plates and dishes were washed. Svetlana did her utmost to slip on back to the lean to that she currently shared with her immediate family without rousing interest from those gathered, but she still received some scolding, ' _Svetlana, put some clothes on!_ ' and ' _Must you really's?_ ' Her favourite came in the form of Gerurbra, the eldest woman in the clan, who took one look at her and laughed, ' _Well, you might as well show it off while you've got it, Da'len!_ '

With a series of uttered ' _Ir abelas's_ ' and meagre attempts to hide her bottom with her crumpled clothing, Svetlana finally managed to wend her way back to her familys' lean-to and slipped inside. There she discovered, much to her great lack of surprise, her younger brother Loughlin perched on a set of stacked boxes, painting his nails.

Though five years her junior, Loughlin had a sort of unapologetic and voracious intelligence that belied his age; a fact that might have won him favours aplenty if he chose to direct its nature accordingly. He was however, with all due respect to his audacious personality, a haughty and veritable pain in the ass.

From the time he was old enough to form sentences, Loughlin had developed a disposition of always being perpetually bored with most everything. At least... everything so far as the Dalish were concerned. Though the very first to be able to tell you everything there was to be known about ' _this legend_ ' or _'that god_ ' or ' _that way of doing things_ ', he seemed to have nothing of a genuine interest in it. As though, having tapped the local reservoir of knowledge dry, his mind was slowly dying of thirst for want of nourishment that was simply no longer available. When he had started to ask questions of the clan's teacher (in his usual unconcerned and borderline insolent fashion no less) he found himself being directed to spend less time outside the borders of the class and more time in the company of himself.

The problem, Svetlana surmised, was that Loughlin was far too clever for his own good and far too aware of it for anyone elses. He had grown to detest the belabouring of insolence and unfortunately, detected it in most everything within which there was some manner of structure or 'fences' in place, as he so put it. Svetlana could most certainly understand how the _hahren_ would tire of his constant high-handed questioning and wondered, as she often did, how someone so fiercely unrestrained could be related to someone as practical and even keeled as herself.

"Brother." She remarked, taking up the wooden clothes airer that had been propped beside some boxes and positioning it just outside of the 'entryway'. She flicked out the length of her still somewhat clammy dress and draped it over the improvised wooden slats; directing the airers legs so that the morning sun could hit the material directly.

"Sister." Loughlin glanced over and then away with a visible wince. "Gods above... could you have warned me before you came prancing in sans but a stitch to your, rather unfortunate, name?"

Svetlana took to her usual tried routine of practiced smiling as she fetched out a towel from a still as of yet unsorted pile and dried what there was of her that required drying.

"There's nothing wrong with my name."

Loughlin offered in return his ever the same unconvinced smile with its perpetual undercurrent of boredom before returning his attention to his nails. "There's nothing much right with it either. You know... I quite think that it is you I have to thank for my lack of interest in the so called 'fairer sex', sister? Whipping off your kit every five to six seconds or so. Just saying... I might have had a chance if you hadn't gone and spoiled the mystery at every turn."

He gave a wistful sigh, as though he were in fact truly aggrieved by his inability to be aroused by the naked form of women. He might have still been only a child (implausible as his verbosity made this appear) but Svetlana had guessed at a time earlier than this that Loughlin was in fact gay. Which of course was of no concern to her but she most certainly doubted that she had in any way impacted this development by her propensity to march about in the altogether.

"I think we both know that you're far too pig-headed to let anything I do make a decision, unconscious or otherwise, for you." Svetlana stated, draping the towel now over the clothes horse before turning to face her bedroll. She had set out her ritual attire (plus fresh underclothes) over top of her linens before heading out to breakfast and she now started to pull them on. Loughlin kept a steady eye and an even steadier hand focused on his nails but she noticed him glancing the once or twice in her direction.

"So..." He finally said, which was not unexpected as the boy duly adored the sound of his own voice and abhored the silence in which it might otherwise fill. "You ready to surrender that dolesome autonomy and get the Dalish stamp of approval seared into your face forever, _Da'Hara_?"

Svetlana sighed, a small smile gracing her lips as she hopped in place; tugging her breaches up about her barely existence, yet somehow equally resistant hips. "Here we go..."

Loughlin of course, did not go to the effort of looking contrite for his opinions. Such a thing would be quite unheard of and further run the risk of forming unsightly wrinkles. "If I told you I was sorry, I'd be lying, so I won't bother." He began, which was a statement Svetlana was so unsurprised to hear that her eyes just about turned cartwheels in their sockets. "But surely _you_ of all people can see where I'm coming from?"

Svetlana knew what he meant by 'you of all people'. She was a fair minded person and just as interested in learning of the wider world and greater purpose as he. Though she felt she did in fact approach it with perhaps a modicum of grace and decorum that her younger brother apparently did not see the need or indeed point, in masquerading.

"Believe it or not _Loughlin Lavellan_ but feeble-minded me is actually capable of seeing where your great mind is coming from." Svetlana replied, fixing her trousers tight to her waist with a thin, double looped leather belt and plucking up her bra from the bedroll. It wasn't something she always wore, given that she hadn't much upstairs that required support, but she had become a little more vigilant with such things since her unfortunate encounter two years ago. She fed her arms though the straps and brought the material snug to her chest; giving a wiggle and a squiggle here and there to adjust. "But I also wonder whether your feelings around this are more to do with perhaps feeling the teensiest bit insecure about... the needles..."

She crossed the room to pinch her fingers to Loughlin's still somewhat baby fat imbued cheeks; a gesture he tolerated with but a patented glare before turning his gaze back towards his fingernails with a disinterested sniff.

"Yes, well... I won't pretend to be a fan of unnecessary pain, _Da'Hara_ but my concerns have very little to do with that." He said and with such casual confidence in his words that Svetlana once again had to remind herself that he was in fact younger than her. "By allowing them to stitch any of those archaic and, let's be honest, truly unsightly marks into your face, well... it beggars belief. To me, at least."

"Remember what the Keeper tells us, Loughlin." Svetlana stated, impatience now leaching into her tone as she pulled on her tunic and outer wear coat. Her eyes raked the room from between the gaps that showed in her clothing, trying to remember where in the Gods names she had set her boots down. "They honour the-"

"- the Elvhen Gods, _yes_ , I know. I _know_. 'Elvhen Gods' forbid if they never actually existed, however. Then we're just... defacing ourselves for nothing." He paused in his self-enhancing administrations; casting her a pointed look that somehow managed to make her feel small and ignorant, in spite of the difference in their ages. "And who is to say that the Keeper isn't simply as stupid as the next? Just because you can make the roots of a tree dance is little reason to go around kissing their arses. ' _We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit_!" He tutted vehemently from the corner of his mouth. "Fucking twaddle."

Svetlana was a fair minded person with a lot of time to consider the opinions of others but this was one for which she could have glanced her palm to her brothers face for. "Are you shitting me right now, kid?! In case you forgot, it was ignorance like that which led the Chantry to burn Halamshiral to the ground! The humans belief that their interpretation of Andraste was correct and ours was not." She jerked up one of her boots from beside the entryway, leaning on the wooden support beam in order to fit it over her foot. "You have every right not to agree with how our people do things, Loughlin but don't be so discourteous as to discount entirely the reason's as to _why_. The Long Walk. So many of our ancestors fallen before their time, feet ripped to shreds on the unfamiliar road. All for the hope that we might one day have a place to call our own. They fought hard for us. The very least we owe them is respect of their memory, you ungrateful brat."

This at least seemed to cow Loughlin's fiery self-righteousness some. An expression formed on his face, ever so slight but cacophonous so far as what was going on within his mind. She could move him, where not many people could and it never failed to grant him some manner of humility, where arrogance might very well have made room to flourish instead.

" _Ir abelas, Da'Hara_." He said, which assured Svetlana beyond doubt that he was truly taking heed of her. To speak in their language rather than the common tongue was a definitive sign that he had been brought back down to earth. "I'm just in one of my moods."

"I'm assuming it is as a result of said 'mood' that you're not in class at the moment? Did the _Hahren_ ask you to leave again?"

He gave a haughty snort; much like a Halla with a tickle in its nostril. "Svette, I am ahead of my time and clearly ahead of my peers. What good does it do any of us to be reminded of it?"

"And yet you do. Repeatedly." Svetlana chuckled, wrenching on her other boot and tightening the buckles to keep the supple leather molded to her feet. She preferred not to wear shoes where possible but she had no way of knowing just how long she would be out in the woods, waiting for this 'sign'. Best be prepared. "I suppose at the least you're keeping yourself entertained."

Loughlin's eyes swung back in their sockets; craning towards the fabric awning of the tent, lips pursed tight as he deeply exhaled through his nose. It was a gesture Svetlana had seen far too often. He was preparing himself to be chastised.

"Ah, yes. Going to pull a big sister now and tell me that painting my nails isn't 'an appropriate activity for a man'?"

Svetlana smirked, crouching by Loughlin's elbow and craning her neck to take a closer look at the bright magenta polish currently adorning his fingernails.

"As if I would, you touchy little prick. Was only going to suggest that you give it an extra minute or so before going over with the second coat. You're getting a couple of buckles in the centre of your nail here." She took up one of his hands by the wrist and gently blew on the still wet polish; giving a couple of darting waves with her own fingers to emulate a fanning motion. "Besides, Assan would be more likely to chew us both out for using _shemlen_ made products. Never mind the makeup itself."

"Well that's right, you sneak. You only went and got these from that Trader who had come through from Val Royeaux, right?"

"Well... got one of the girls to, anyway. Stored up a lot of Fennec pelts to get myself some makeup and other, most frowned upon, pretty bibs and bobs." Svetlana chuckled, taking up the delicate little brush and sliding it back into the bottle of red paint. She used the tips to fill in one or two places that her brother had glossed over before blowing on them again. "Your big sister was not the least impressed. I think she's still glaring at me."

Loughlin gave out a world weary (if one could be such a thing at age twelve) sigh. "Never have I ever known a woman who can be so boring and so angry about it at the same time." He used his free hand to pick up one of the bottles he had chosen not to use, tipping it from side to side so as to watch the liquid slide about the glass. "It must be a grand old place. Val Royeaux?"

"Guess so. From what little the books tell me." Svetlana capped the paint bottles and placed them back in the carved wooden box in which she kept what she was certain had been her 'secret' luxury items. She said nothing of Loughlin's having quite obviously broken into it. "Big old gold lions, towering buildings... those weird water fountains you see in the books sometimes? You know, the  ones where it's some little boy made out of stone..." She made a gesture from her crotch outwards; like someone urinating. "- taking a piss into the mouth of a fish?"

Loughlin scoffed, angling his fingers as though to keep track on how the nails were drying. "You have to wonder about the people who actually take the time to carve those things, don't you? Wouldn't you be suspicious of anyone whose occupation revolved around carving anatomically correct pre-pubescent genitalia and turning it into water features?" He frowned, setting his hand down on the curve of his knee and staring at Svetlana with genuine (if somewhat perturbed) curiosity. "And how would they _train_ for such a thing? You know, if I were an Orlesian community affairs official, my first order of business would be to go about and check all the local orphanages just to make certain none of the unaccounted children had been interfered with in the name of art."

"Loughlin,  _really?_ That shit is  _sick._ I need to sleep at night kid, don't go putting thoughts like that in my head." Svetlana groaned as she finished stowing her box back in the base of the ornate chest that she had inherited from her late mother. Before finishing up with her ablutions, she made her way back over to perch at Loughlin's side, taking up his hand by the heel and turning it gently from side to side to examine his now luminous nails. "Love the red. It's a good choice. Kinda clashes with the pink in your eyes, though." She sighed, giving his sandy scruff of hair a good ruffle before making her way back to where her travel bag rested by the end of her bedroll. She tugged the opening wider and took quick, but thorough stock of everything she had packed. "Would have killed to inherit that from Mother. You and Assan really did get the best from both of them, didn't you?"

"Oh, to piss with _that_."

Svetlana glanced up, seeing Loughlin glaring down at her with such a look of unadulterated approach he would be loathe to realize resembled that of his elder sister to the enth. She tilted her head, wondering if he had mistaken her observations for self-pity; something of which she was never much wont to indulge, because it quite frankly was a waste of time and reserves that were much better utilized for other matters. Such as eating and sleeping. And sex, when opportunity allowed.

"I was only just-"

"Oh, I know what you were ' _only just doing_.'" Loughlin said, his tone and gaze as equally as impatient. He looked more the offended for her having bothered to offer up some lame, gibbering excuse, thus further wasting his time in having to acknowledge it. "You were putting yourself down.  _Again._ It's like a compulsion with you, like you think you  _need_ to get in there first before Assan pops up out of some random box and starts shitting all over your self-esteem." He set his elbow to the curve of his knee, his eyes narrowing so that they felt to pierce through her. "Do you truly think I'd concern myself with your getting that dreadful branding seared into your face, if I didn't think there was something attractive about it?"

This one surprised her, for Loughlin was the first to confess to not having much of a sentimental streak. They were kind to each other she supposed, in much the same way that two begrudging stowaways of a ship will find something of a complimentary interest, in just the fact that they are both in fact, stowaway's. Svetlana's gross strength had always set her apart, just as Loughlin's intelligence had. Things that ought very well to have been a benefit to one's character had the reverse effect of keeping others at bay. _Though in my defence_ , Svetlana thought, _I at least tried to curb my condition. Loughlin makes no attempt to veil his belief that he is in fact superior to others because his brain swells in just the right compartment._

They were wed by something far greater than mutual sharing of blood and parentage. Something intrinsic which set them apart. That both endeared and alienated in equal measure. Which fostered mutual respect, admiration and tolerance. Svetlana knew full well that her brother would never lie to her, would never coax and coddle and offer false platitudes simply to assuage her. This was an aspect of his personality that she respected. Something others would find disconcerting; for an abrasive touch is never so soothing as the gliding caress of silk. She understood this about him. And he in turn respected her enough in turn to know that she was strong and humble and smart enough to hear what he had to say without needing it wrapped liberally in that fine silk coating the rest of Thedas believed was required to deliver the harsh sampling of the truth.

"With all due respect, Loughlin," She stated and felt a minor flicker of irritation as he instinctively rolled his eyes. Sensing deflection in those few words alone. "You're twelve years old, _Da'len_. Smarter, mind you, then I'll ever be, but... I don't suppose you to be the best judge of what is considered to be lovely in a woman's face." She smiled, leaning to the side and effacing in a dramatic whisper from the corner of her mouth: " _For obvious reasons.._."

Loughlin turned to face her, keeping his legs crossed and face carefully poised. With such control, he would make for rather the effective card player one day. "Hey, I might be as queer as a golden nug, sis, but it doesn't hinder me from seeing beauty in women. You seem to imagine that "Assan The Boring" is far better looking than you'll ever be. Granted she's hot, one doesn't deny that, but the trick is all in the hair, _Da'Hara_."

He made a flagrant gesture out and away from his temple, as though fluffing up a layer of imaginary curls.

"That dark red, those waves... That big glorious  _whomph_ of pure touseled attitude. Most people's eyes are drawn to an extravagant floof of hair. You didn't get Father's curl, like she did. Your hair is thick but too heavy to put a wave in it. Plus, you keep it cut in that... well that... questionable mullet like coif but, you know that... that's merely technicalities. But you," He gestured to her face, staring deep into her eyes in that disconcerting way that he had which she was certain she might have often turned on others herself. "You have a prettier face than Assan. You have better cheek bones, nicer eyes. Same as me."

"Such modesty."

"What does being modest get anyone? Point is, we were _built_ the same way. And now you're just going to let some age old 'possibly wrong' tradition shit all over that? Plant some mystical flag on your face, all in the supposed name of 'reverence?' Of 'respect?'" He made that self same noise of cheek muted disgust, lowering his eyes now to check over his drying nails. Giving them an errant tap here and there to see whether or not they would mark. "What about _'our'_ choice? Our individuality? The right for our faces to make their own impression? Be their own canvas? We're either branded in silence or we're cast out as 'cowards'. What more proof do you need than right here in our own family?"

Sorrow overtook her for a moment and she was forced to drop her head, or risk the tears running out and giving Loughlin far too much weight to an argument he was already so adept at having.

"Look what those assholes did to Dhavaro. He could have ruled the world; face and mind and soul like his. They  _ruined_ him, _Da'Hara_. They sent him out into those woods and all their stupid tradition and shit, it worse than killed him. Is that _right_? Does their way take precedence over our right? Our right to be in control of our minds our bodies our souls?"

It was a debate she hated having with her younger brother, for she could see the logic in his consternations. It changed nothing though, so far as she was concerned. The clan was her world, and after experiencing what the rest of Thedas clearly thought of Elves, she had little desire to go dancing out into the wider beyond in search of other worlds to inhabit. She was safe here at least. Safe from the marauding intentions of unpredictable brutish humans and their subjugations. If the price of security was having a mark or two seared into her face, she would gladly pay it.

"Loughlin... I know it might seem that way, but..."

He held up a cautionary finger. "Come on, don't... don't _do_ that, _Da'Hara_. Don't talk a defence before you've even prepared it. There's no more insufficient a word as 'but'. It's just an insult to whatever follows it."

She took an apple from her bag and tossed it instinctually towards his head. It bounced off of his shoulder, hit the floor and rolled back towards her.

"I can see why your teacher threw you out of class." She said, smiling as she scooped the now bruised fruit back up and returned it to her bag. Loughlin rubbed his shoulder, his smile matching hers. He was not unaccustomed to having her pitch things at him. She too, had little patience for things that irritated her and being belittled, either intentionally or otherwise, was one of her trigger points.

"I have an opinion. They and you have a right to be offended by those opinions. The world won't end if we all don't agree." He bestowed another little puff of air to his nails, shook his hands from side to side. "I just refuse to sit idly by and pretend that I believe in a face as pretty as yours... or mine... being marred for the sake of puritanical and foremost puerile beliefs."

"If you weren't my brother, saying such things, I might almost think that you fancied me." Svetlana teased, fluttering her eyelashes with such impunity it might very well have dried what remained of Loughlin's nails. "But I do confess; you got a way of making a person feel pretty damn inspired to go forth and get shit done."

Loughlin continued to look unimpressed. "Well, then... take your inspiration and do some good with it. Better that than having some stupid tattoo stamped into your face by some stupid people for even more stupid reasons. I mean, seriously, when _is_ the Keeper going to walk towards the light, you think? She's old enough to have fucked the All Father. You know she's got to piss blood every time she squats in the woods."

"Better not let  _Hahren_ hear you say this. You'll be exiled to the farthest reaches of the least hospitable swamp."

"At least it would be interesting." Loughlin sighed, easing himself down off of the stacked boxes and holding his hands out in front of himself as though he were searching for something in the dark. He ambled for the gap in the lean to, a heavy drop to his hips that Svetlana thought very telling as to who might one day be sharing his bed. "Bored now. Perhaps I'll go dry these in the sun. Pretend as though I don't notice your attempts to be charming stand as a feeble guise to your perpetual efforts to avoid dealing with the stark and harsh reality of the world."

"Stop with all the big words, _Da'Len._ I am but a simple elf, but with a very small brain."

"So you pretend. Now." Loughlin gestured with his chin to a cup that was perched on the small table nearby to where he had been previously perched. Svetlana had not even noticed it. "I set your glass of tomato juice out and put a bit of salt and pepper in it, just as you like. You were in such a rush this morning you went and forgot. No one is surprised."

"Oh, thank you Loughlin. I was all tizzied up over this strange dream that I'd had... threw my whole schedule right off." She plucked the cup up and took a gulp from the thick contents. The salt and pepper added just the right balance and she sighed internally for the delicious wash of flavour that cascaded over her tongue. Fewer were the ways that were better to start ones day.

"One thing..." Loughlin queried and Svetlana turned back to him, tomato juice clinging to her upper lip as a patchy moustache. "Just why is it that you walked in here naked? Not unusual for you I know, but...?"

Svetlana made her own guttural noise of disgust, almost choking on the follow up gulp that she took of her juice. "Had a run in with that idiot Vahiris. Nothing to worry about." Because Loughlin had started to swell up in such a way that the arteries in his neck distended to a disproportionate degree. "Just had himself a little tantrum and went and pitched my clothes into the river while I was bathing."

"Typical ham handed brute. His little brother isn't much better."

"Still getting punches in?"

"He would be, if I wasn't as sharp with an arrow as I was with my tongue." Loughlin remarked with a high handed smirk which suggested that this statement had more than a modicum of truth to it. At age twelve, he was already a proficient archer; another area in which he excelled and further drove others to blithering infuriation with his oft remarks concerning it. "I'm not about to be some frail wrist flapping stereotype who lets the brutes walk all over him, sister. That expectation is as boring and as trite as the next."

He gave her a look then, one that she found just the slightest bit vulnerable. Again, it was these subtle nuances she found the most telling, for it was but a slivers glimpse through what was otherwise an impenetrable wall. But walls could still very well hide the view of a storm that was raging beyond.

"When all goes well today," He said and she had to smile for the confidence he had in her. "You will be able to take your own shelter, away from the rest of the family. Since you'll be a big, grown up adult and all?"

Svetlana nodded, having some idea already of what was coming and took another gulp of her tomato juice. Waited. He lifted a brow and gave that same near insecure crooked smile that she herself was prone to.

"Well... you know what I'm going to ask."

She knew. Of course she did. Assan had given up a lot to raise her and her two brothers. That didn't mean that she was naturally the easiest person to get along with. She was certain to ensure that all their needs were met, but often times her resentment was palpable. Enhanced further then by the birth of her own daughter and the stark reality that the father had no intentions of leaving his clan to join the Lavellan's. Assan, like everyone, was shaped by hardship. But her shape had taken on edges that were sharp and hard and often times pillared a metaphorical fifty feet high. Loughlin was at a difficult developmental stage in his life and his inability to curb his contentious views and opinions had led him into glaring confrontation with his traditional sister on more than one occasion. If of course he had a means to stretch out and move from under what he considered to be her 'oppressive' influence, he felt he might have a chance for genuine happiness. Svetlana knew this, for it was how she herself felt, though she would never say it out loud. To do such a thing would give her own feelings of resentment towards her sister form and she didn't feel it right to give in to such pettiness.

"You don't need to ask, Loughlin." Svetlana said, returning that same crooked smile as Loughlin's shoulders looked to slough, ever so slightly, with relief. "I honestly think Assan would be relieved to have a bit more space. Start focusing more on her own life now, rather than worrying about us every two seconds."

"I don't think she'd know what to do with herself if she wasn't 'worrying' about us, but I love that you're kind enough to think so." Loughlin said, marching back over to her and leaning down (for he was already slightly taller than her) to plant a kiss to her cheek. "Go crush this, sister. Crush it like you crush a bears skull at that time of the month."

"Go on with you already, shithead." Svetlana laughed, giving Loughlin what she would consider to be a gentle shove in the shoulder and just about sending him catapulting out through the canvas wall. He disappeared into the dusty morning sun and Svetlana, having a moment now to herself, took up the small handheld mirror from amongst her personal objects and held it out so as to quickly peruse her appearance. Such that it was.

She felt her lip curl, quite outside her conscious efforts to control. Loughlin, she thought, was far too generous. Though he didn't see the point much in telling a lie, whether through good intentions or otherwise, she couldn't the least understand how he would perceive her appearance as being in any way shape or form superior to that of Assan. So far as looks were concerned, Assan was the Elvhen equivalent of a _Hanal'ghilan_ , whereas Svetlana was more the slightly bow legged, one horned Halla which hobbled along at the back of the herd with hoof-rot and an equally crippling desire to please. There was simply no comparing the two.

She wasn't unfortunate, she knew. She simply wasn't... exceptional. In the passing years since she had entered her mid to late teens, she had lost all of her puppy fat and grown to look a bit more womanly than she ever imagined she would be. There were lines and angles in her face she had never before seen and her lips had filled out to form a shape that reminded her a little of a lace bow. Her jaw however, was thick and the bottom of her face heavy... Her mothers wide mouth, set perfectly in her own face, meshed unfortunately with the jaw and chin of Svetlana's far sturdier father. Her high cheek bones might very well have been a saving grace but she felt that it simply further added to the perception that her face was shaped like a box. A box that was full of heavy objects... like steel bars. Hanging from those otherwise delicate cheekbones like earrings made of concentrated iron.

And her tiny ears... Creator above. They sat low and to the sides of her head as though she had, through force of pure will and perceived embarrassment, forced them into a state of near non-existence. Hence why the others referred to her as 'Little Hare'. Well, that and the way she chewed her food. And stamped her foot when she was startled.

Svetlana took a small smudge of wax from a glass jar in her bag and used it to smooth her hair back from her face and temples. The scar on her forehead was ever the more obvious for it but she simply couldn't abide hair hanging down over her face. It irritated her for one and proved a distraction when she was out trying to get things done. Though her brother (and most others aside) made jokes about how she styled her hair, she had little care for the outcome so long as it was practical. It was a shame in some ways, because she knew that her thick, black hair was her best feature besides her eyes but she simply wouldn't risk it getting long enough to grab. A sensible decision, she felt and besides... having it up and away from her face gave her eyes room to shine. And if there was one thing Svetlana liked about her face, it was her eyes. They might not have had that beautiful pink hue that Loughlin and Cillian inherited from their mother, or the green that Assan, and Dhavaro inherited from their father, but she thought the soft light brown of her own suited her face well. Men seemed to like it, anyway. Or perhaps they just liked how comfortable she seemed without her clothes off. Six to one, half a dozen the other, really.

She rubbed at the scar on her forehead; the mark that appeared to have only thickened as she had gotten older. She wondered whether this might impinge on her ability to have the _Valleslin_ tattooed there; as the _Hahren_ had suggested it might. Nothing much for it now, the past was past after all. Svetlana barely noticed it really; for it had become as much a part of her as the hair on her head and the lashes upon her eyes. Simply another part of her makeup, albeit it a rather unfortunate one.

She bothered only with putting a little purple colour on her lips, more for wanting to do something nice for herself than for any other reason. She bothered with nothing else, not wanting to look as though she were trying to put on a 'fashion show' as her sister might put it. Certain now that everything was in order, Svetlana hefted her bag onto her back, swigged the last of her tomato juice and swished out into the camp proper. She got no further than ten feet before she promptly reeled off to the left and vomited beside a freshly stacked pile of timber.

_Nerves_ , she thought, as she wiped the corners of her mouth, _will be the damned death of me._

~X~

She set up camp at least half a days walk from where the rest of her clan were currently situated. Under instructions to keep her temporary living situation 'simple', she stretched a small piece of canvas between four wooden supports; two of which were considerably longer so as to create a slant in the material and allow her to slip in underneath. She unravelled her bedroll and petted it down beneath her rudimentary shelter, setting her bag in the shallow end where the material sloped towards the ground. She sat a while, taking in some water from her canteen and nibbling handfuls of dried cheese, berries and nuts. The time was just past midday and the sun was still high and still hot. Any other day and with this much privacy, Svetlana might have made the most of it and dispensed with her clothes in favour of stretching out and improving on her tan. The feeling of the sun on bare flesh was second to none, so far as she was concerned. You could practically feel your skin soaking the rich, warm nutrients out of the air.

Some other time. For now, there was shit to be doing. Shit like taking another dunk in the river by which she had camped.

It had been Svetlana's second wash of the day but two things were quite true: The first - That she had been walking non-step a good half day and smelt of something that had been dead for twice as long, and the second - Cleansing the body was one of the requirements of the ritual. The body must be properly scrubbed and cleaned before she commenced with her meditation.

She hardly minded. Svetlana had always been something of a 'water baby', as her mother had described her. Her childhood was in fact dominated by memories of having to be forcibly extracted from whatever watering hole the clan might have camped beside just in time for the bats to come out. Even in the colder months, when she ought to really have known better. There was simply something... freeing about being in the water; about swimming. Turning and spinning about, feeling the torrents of the water twist and slide with her, bubbling and splashing. Her family would most likely argue that her attraction to the water was affiliated with her ever present desire to take her clothes off and Svetlana might have argued more strongly for the varied interpretation, if she hadn't well known that there was truth in their own.

The day was warm and lovely and so she took her time with her swim; turning lazy circles in the sheltered grove, raking water back through her hair. She kept a sharp look out for any interlopers; having no interest in entertaining the perverse whimsies of fool Orlesian _shemlen_ today. She focused on scrubbing clean the soles of her feet, the den beneath each of her arms and the indentations between her thighs and pubic region. Anywhere, naturally, where sweat was likely to have gathered. She cleaned her hair with the fruit scented fluffy concoction the craftsman had created and gave her short locks a good rinse to rid it of bubbles. Rubbed clean sweat and dirt from her face.

Satisfied that she was sufficiently cleansed and cool, Svetlana dried herself off whilst standing on the least sharp and pointy rock she found by the river and then slipped into a breezy, ivory coloured dress. She had warmer clothes for the evening but as of right now, with the air as balmy as it was, she didn't want to risk any unnecessary discomfort and resultant distraction from her meditation. She was fidgety and impatient enough as it was and this was simply too important now to fuck up.

Svetlana had little trust in remaining on the ground whilst she entered her meditation. Too much of a risk from... well, much of anything really. Giant spiders for one, _yeeuch_. Nearby to her camp, there was a particularly good tree, with sufficient coverage to its central foliage. She quickly hefted her way on up the trunk, climbing until she was well and certain she wasn't likely to be seen from the ground. Found a good old shady spot in the crook of one of the heftier branches and was more the pleased to find there was room enough to cross her legs and rest her back against the trunk. Meditation to her, never seemed more the authentic than if one was crossing their legs.

And so, Svetlana made herself as comfortable as was possible, set her hands down into her lap and focused on relaxing each of her individual muscles. The toes first, squeezing each as tight as she could and then releasing them. Nice little crack in each of the joints there... _Ahhhh..._ A welcome relief after a long day crunching along on them. Whoever supposed elves to be particularly light of feet had never gone and met her, that much was obvious.

Each of those supposedly dainty feet in turn. Clenching tight, holding and then releasing; feeling that good pull down from her shins. Focusing then on her-

_Oh shit... my food bag. There's probably going to be a bear waiting for me when I get back down._

After a brief interlude to retrieve her food bag, bring it up the tree and hook it to a nearby branch, Svetlana returned to her meditation... preparations. Started again with her toes and then moving to her feet, her shins and then squeezing each of her thighs in tandem. Her glutes, pressed tight to the branch of the tree-

_\- Vahiris's palms squeezing firm, pulling her in tighter over his hips with a thrust that stole the breath from the very core of her. He had always loved her arse, always said such complimentary things concerning it. She had lapped it all up like a needy dog, a stereotype more the shamefully indulged than that which her brother so artfully dodged. A naïve, insecure girl, acting out because she didn't get enough love at home; Gods, could she be more pathetic?!_

Svetlana groaned, irritated, and tipped her head back; giving it a few good knocks against the trunk of the tree. It probably didn't help much, given that she had already been dropped on it as a child but there was little else she could do to keep herself focused. Turning inwards had never been one of her strengths; there was far too much going on in there that she didn't rather like. Hardly a surprise, given that she was seventeen and likely as troubled as the very next adolescent of her clan. More to the point, she felt was that she simply lacked a tolerance for sitting idle. If she were reading, or conversing, or playing a game or taking a nap, well, those were at least something to occupy her attentions. But simply sitting? Sitting and... _thinking_? Thinking mind you, of the ways of the Dalish? Meditating on their purpose, _her_ purpose as one of the metaphorical cogs in the greater machine that was her transient, nomadic and somewhat smugly ethereal people.

Try to remember the teachings, she instructed herself, closing her eyes and abandoning all her itinerant body relaxation exercises. She needed some firm structure and direction for a mind as attention deficit as her own. _Sound them out in your head, word for word. Start with that and hopefully... the rest of this shit should come... natural._

_Vir Assan._  
_The Way of the Arrow._  
_Sharp and straight to the heart of the matter. Just like her sister._

_Stop. Focus._

_Fly high and... no, no... that wasn't right. Fly... straight! Straight, that was it. Fly straight and do not waver. Swiftness and silence, so said Andruil. Strike true and do not... um, do not..._

_...Fuck it up?_

_Yes. Do not fuck it up, because that makes a hell of a mess, with lots of blood and squealing and prolonged chases through the wilderness to extract an arrow from the backside of an animal you were so certain you had been aiming for the heart of, but then it's a little difficult to focus when the guy next to you has got his perfectly toned forearms looking ever just right from beneath the tucked rolls of his sleeves, in which case it was his fault the animal had to suffer the indignity of a steel arrow tip buried in the left glute for several dozen gory blood spattered miles and why should she feel guilty about it?_

Svetlana took a moment out to dispense a series of concentrated slaps to her idiot forehead before continuing.

_Strike true and do not waver. Do not let your prey suffer. This most definitely ascribes to shooting them in the arse with an arrow._  
_What was next...? B, B, B... B something... B..._

_Ah, yes._

_Vir Bor'Assan. The Way of the Bow._

_Bows and arrows. Definitely more Loughlin and Assan's field than hers. She was more the big lumbering type._

_Vir Svetlana. The Way of the Lumberer._

_Gods above - FREAKIN FOCUS OR WE'RE NEVER GOING TO GET OUT OF THESE WOODS!!_

_Vir Bor'Assan. The Way of the Bow._

_Bend but never break. As the... reeds bend before the breeze...? No. As the sapling bends, so must you. In yielding, find resilience; in pliancy, find strength._

She did always like that one. It resonated. Endurance, she supposed. Perseverance in the face of fierce adversity. Tolerance. Yield, yet never break. Bend, yet never surrender.

So many believed that such a concession of character was a sign of weakness. Svetlana in turn, felt it to be a sign of great strength. That for no matter how far she was pushed into the ground, the strength inside would never allow her to snap in two. She would yield enough true, but only then to spring violently back and whip about the ankles of those who sought to oppress her. A satisfying thought and one that invariably warmed the cockles of her heart. Whatever in the Gods name a cockle was.

_Vir Adahlen._

_The Way of the Wood. Together we are stronger than the one. Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness. Respect the sacrifice of my children and know that in your passing, you shalt nourish them in turn._

_We are the last of the Elvhen._

_We shall never submit._

_We shall never submit._

_We shall NEVER submit._

Svetlana made herself repeat it a few times over; for it was these words, above all else, for which she felt the most overriding passion. They Dalish were a free people and proud for being so, for rejecting what the _shemlen_ might otherwise have driven them to. The awful alienages of the human cities. Treated as lesser still than substandard. Stripped of their culture, their unique proud history, rendering them but a shadow of their former selves and less still a shade of the human masters to which they were forced to cow and blither in the bootsteps of.

Something scratched at her earlobe and chirruped disconcertedly. Svetlana turned her head, coming face to face with the most pissed off looking squirrel she had ever seen; glaring at her from a small branch about five inches away and attempting, within reason, to squire away the nut it had poised between its little buck teeth, into a hole in the trunk that Svetlana's head had been blocking.

"Well,  _ara seranna-ma."_ Svetlana grumbled, placing the palms of her hands down upon the branch and using the leverage to edge herself slightly over. The squirrel dove immediately for the hole with a vengeful squeak, pushing the little nut inside with two tempestuous front paws. "You only had to ask nicely, you know."

The squirrel expressed its heartfelt sentiments by hopping down from the trunk of the tree, onto Svetlana's knee and then further still until it perched on the branch in front of her. It took a moment to groom its grubby black paws over its whiskers, give its villionous body a fur bristling shake and then bounded away, leaving in its wake a fresh black turd. Svetlana sighed, pressing the back of her head into the tree, feeling that the creatures commentary on her current situation, couldn't be the more accurate.

~X~

By the afternoon, Svetlana had come to find herself verily and truthfully, as bored absolute _fuck._

How did the others manage to sit still and meditate on shit for so long? Especially at their age, when hormones not so much bubbled within their bodies, but rather erupted in a violent deluge. After so many hours of trying, with the most earnest and humble of intentions to sit and muse and beguil that promised 'sign from the Gods' ever closer, that she was on the verge of proposing a bonding with her squirrel friend from earlier and living the rest of her life as its little nut scavanging bitch. Anything to make this long insufferable day come to a close!

After the tree branch lost its appeal (and she in turn had lost the feeling in both arse cheeks) Svetlana relinquished her roost and returned to the woodland floor. She stood a while with hands on hips and puffed out her cheeks to effect a, no doubt, particularly sulky look. Wondering whatever it was she was supposed to do next. The Keeper and the First had never truly explained this part. The only instructions they had were to ' _remain in isolation away from the camp and await the sign that determines your destiny'_. Svetlana had very serious doubts that this supposedly life altering sign had come in the form of a squirrel with poor manners. She couldn't remember much in the teachings that such a thing could be ascribed to and could only pray that a _Valleslin_ in the form of a squirrel shit was not about to be seared into her face for all time.

The thought made her smile, at least for a moment. Finding herself thirsty and just the smallest bit peckish, Svetlana perched herself under her impromptu shelter and took some water from her canteen. She knew she would need to start up a fire soon; to boil more water and prepare food. To say nothing of how the temperature would drop during the night. She wasn't overly concerned about bears, as the area was not well known for them but wolves continued to pose a threat and she would need to be very mindful of how she both prepared and disposed of any game she might catch. Wolves weren't the least likely to approach the larger encampment, as they were traditionally quite wary, careful creatures but for one lone elf, they could prove troublesome.

With this in mind, Svetlana moved her axe to the forefront of the makeshift enclosure and spent the next half hour or so scouring the surrounding area for sticks. She used some twine she had brought from home to twine them firmly together, creating a sort of wall that she could use to close the entryway of the shelter off. She could achieve this by utilizing a pair of vertical sticks she had placed down the middle to stab into the ground and then tying off the upper most sections to the support hooks in the upper part of the fabric. This of course required that she then batten off the side sections, which she did in much the same fashion. It would be cosy, but it was better to get a good, safe nights sleep then to lie awake fretting that a wolf would skulk along and bite her face off at any moment.

Satisfied that she had properly fortified her sleeping quarters, Svetlana was once again struck for something to do. It was too early yet to check the snares or to build a fire. It was the wrong time of day to go fishing. Desperate for something to occupy her time, she took some paper, quill and ink from her bag and wrote down her thoughts and her progress thus far. It was important to keep her reading and writing up to snuff. Something many of the others simply could not seem to be bothered with. Whilst writing, she stripped down to the waist and let her back and shoulders take in some of the warm afternoon sun. Clothing always felt so horribly stuffy, in her opinion. With this in mind, after placing away the quill and the paper, she lay on her back a while and stared up at the sky; letting the heat of the day warm her exposed breasts and belly. This worked for a while, before she then progressed further into childhood and started trotting out some historical habits she thought she had long since shelved.

She made some little people out of sticks and grass and made them fight, wrestle and kiss one another. She pretended that the little grass dolls were having a bonding ceremony, and then celebrating in a wild and unabashedly passionate fashion. This resulted in her accidentally smashing the dolls into pieces with her enthusiasm for their coupling, though in her opinion this did seem an appropriate ends to a Honeymoon.  When the sun got low, it was with relief that she took out her fishing rod and went to a suitable spot by the river; tossing a bit of burly in the water and then using some rock worms for bait. It was some time before the fish to start biting;  it was a little too early in the day but a half hour or so of waiting eventually paid off and Svetlana was rewarded for her patience in the prize of two reasonably sized river bream. One of which she threw back, as it was a female with eggs. She reasoned that the one male was sufficient enough for an evening meal. If she ended up staying away from camp longer than the one night, the snares that she set up would more than likely yield some food for the following days.

As darkness crept into the sky and vanquished what yet remained of the light, Svetlana built a fire by which to cook her modest dinner and boil some water. She had prepared the fish far from camp, tossing the entrails into the river and ensuring that all her utensils were properly washed clean before returning to the fireside to eat.

It was then that the wolf approached.

She had been so careful to do everything right and yet there it was, skulking into the light of the campfire with its embony eyes dancing in the flames. Its shoulders peaked beneath its wiry fur as it approached; like two knots in a willow branch. There were bloodied patches against the white blazes of its legs, gashes to its snout. One ear hung lower than the other and had a small piece missing; like a triangular slice taken out from a load of bread.

Svetlana had a good idea as to what had happened. The grey of the wolf's fur gave it away. He might have been an Alpha of his pack until recently; when a younger male had usurped him from his throne. Unable to remain within the bonds of his kin, he had taken to wandering alone; old, tired and wounded. Surviving until the natural elements, injury or starvation found him.

He was exhausted and desperate, that much was certain. But too weak to want to run the risk of a fight; even with a lone elf. He had smelt the fish cooking. His tongue glanced out to swash over the whiskered hills of his jowels, his nose twitching at the air. Svetlana's heart ached. She felt as she had done that morning so many years past when she had been unable to rouse her father. A strange sense of desperate, unparalleled responsibility. That she somehow, _somehow_ could do something to _fix_ this, to make this horrible thing that was stretched out before her be anything other than what it was. It was a sadness as deep and as pervasive as some who had travelled surmised the surrounding oceans to be.

She felt no fear, for there was nothing to fear. Not from a poor, destitute creature such as this. She had eaten her few mouthfuls of fish and had berries and nuts still with which to fill her belly. If she could somehow alleviate this poor creatures suffering for at least this one night... well. It was something. Perhaps something small in the wider scheme of things, but monumental and earth shattering so far as the starving beast was concerned.

"You're lucky you caught me in a generous mood." Svetlana advised, easing herself up into a crouch and waddling about so as to get clear from the campfire. She tossed the remainder of the fish carcass towards the wolf; who initially flinched and backed off a few feet. Clearly anticipating the usual rebuke that it most likely received from travellers in the woods. Its hunger won out in the end however and the smell from the fish was strong enough to encourage it forward. It took a perfunctory sniff from the carcass and then, appropriately enough, wolfed into it with great enthusiasm. It even took the time to lay on its belly to do so; as though taking proper care to savour the meal in a civilized manner.

"Enjoy." Svetlana chuckled, returning to her aforementioned perch by the fire and taking a small thin pipe from her bag. She used this on occasion to smoke ground Elfroot; a medicinal plant that offered unique healing properties, yet also created a secondary calming effect when the fumes were inhaled. She of course made well and sure to put a good deal of distance between herself and her sister whenever she partook. Assan wasn't likely to approve.

Svetlana took a small pouch from inside of her bag and retrieved a pinch of the ground elfroot, which she placed in the thimble sized cup of the pipe and lit then with a a stick from the fire thats tip was burning strong. She took a deep breath in, felt the calming fumes encapsulate her lungs and brain alike and ease much of the tension from her muscles in turn. She watched the wolf slurp down the last of the fish; bones and tail and all. She decided to sing to it a little song; one that her mother had sung to her when she had been small and one she was reminded of whenever Cillian sang to his children:

_Elgara vallas, da'len  (Sun sets, little one)_  
_Melava somniar  (Time to dream)_  
_Mala taren aravas  (Your mind journeys)_  
_Ara ma'desen melar  (But I will hold you here)_

_Iras ma ghilas, da'len  (Where will you go, little one)_  
_Ara ma'nedan ashir  (Lost to me in sleep?)_  
_Dirthara lothlenan'as  (Seek truth in a forgotten land)_  
_Bal emma mala dir  (Deep with in your heart)_

_Tel'enfenim, da'len  (Never fear, little one,)_  
_Irassal ma ghilas  (Wherever you shall go.)_  
_Ma garas mir renan  (Follow my voice--)_  
_Ara ma'athlan vhenas  (I will call you home.)_  
_Ara ma'athlan vhenas  (I will call you home.)_

"That's a nice song, isn't it?" Svetlana remarked, feeling very warm and at home and at peace with the world. The wolf didn't seem to particularly care. It simply licked its chops and looked to her as though expecting more to the meal than what it had been offered.

"There's nothing else. Go on with you now. You've already gone and had my share."

The wolf offered a temperate sounding snort off to the side before returning its snout to the spot on which the fish had originally rested. It took a sniff and gave a dank lick to the earth. Svetlana felt more the pity for it and wished immediately that she had stayed on to catch another fish or two. It simply wasn't worth the effort though. She'd had no idea she would receive a dinner companion and keeping an excess of food around was simply asking for trouble from more unsavoury members of the woodland community.

"I'm sorry, I simply have nothing else for you. Although," She turned and pointed up the tree, to where darkness had now encapsulated the branches as completely as a travellers cloak. "Rumour has it that there is an ill mannered squirrel making the rounds, if you're so inclined?"

The wolf cocked its head at her as though it were wondering whether she was serious or not and took a glance in the direction her finger was pointed. Clearly spotting nothing of interest among the branches, it turned its gaze back to her with a disgruntled sort of look which suggested it had been led astray. Svetlana chuckled softly, taking another deep drag from her pipe.

"Well, I can't say I blame you. They are stringy little bastards. More than what it's worth to clean them."

The wolf made a huffing sound, as though in agreement and heaved itself back up onto its feet with obvious effort. Svetlana felt her eyes crease in sympathy, to see the wounds lain bare across its aged body. It reminded her of the time, as a child, she and her brother Dhavaro been feeding some stale bread to some water fowl that inhabited the borders of a dam by which they were camped. She noticed that one of the birds had a small, thin piece of metal protruding from the corner of its beak and a noticeable swelling in what she supposed passed for a fowls cheek. When she pointed it out to her brother, he surmised that it was likely a fishing hook; further evidenced by the edge of nylon bound to the eye at its tip. The bird had either come across an old hook when pecking through the foliage of the shoreline, or it had gobbled at a fisherman's line when it had been cast in.

They had both been terribly upset by the discovery and spent far too long trying to lure the bird in close so that they could attempt to remove it. Eventually, Dhavaro tired of the softly-softly approach and threw caution to the wind; launching himself on top of the bird and pinning it up against his body. The fowl naturally took exception to this treatment and responded in due course by shitting itself liberally and spectacularly all over Dhavaro's newly stitched tunic. When Svetlana moved in for the assist, she found herself at the mercy of the frightened creatures repeated, flat beaked pecks; which lacked something of the impression they might have made if it had been anything other than a water fowl but was still for the most part off putting. She tried to take a hold of the hook to remove it, but the bird thrashed so violently that she wasn't able to get a good grip and they feared hurting the poor animal more than it already was.

So, they had brought the bird back with them to the encampment. As a now adult, Svetlana could see how the rest of the clan would have found that a ridiculous thing to do but she and Dhavaro had only been confused little children at the time. Covered still in throbbing peck marks and bird excrement, they had trundled their well-meaning way up to the Keeper's house and asked if they were able to speak with their brother.

Anyone else might very well have clipped the pair under the ears, taken the bird in hand and wrung its neck for good measure but Cillian was a man far more patient than the rest. He was always the one to whom the children would run whenever Assan was in a mood. Out of the two elder siblings, he was indisputably the more compassionate; a fact he proved yet again by not laughing at Svetlana and Dhavaro's situation but taking it both earnestly and seriously. As the then second apprentice to the Keeper, he had magical abilities, they knew, and was able to calm the bird with a spell; so that he was then able to lay the once distressed creature on its side. He examined the wound and found the hook to have been deeply imbedded in the interior of the fowls mouth. It had clearly been there some time, as tissue had formed about it in such a way as to hold the barb firm.

He explained to his younger siblings that there was very little he would be able to do and it would likely cause the bird more injury to attempt to remove it. Svetlana had immediately taken to weeping whilst Dhavaro, ever the idealist, switched to affirmative grandstanding sedition; advising his brother in his most heroic sounding voice yet that he simply _must_ do something, as the bird could _not_ be expected to live like this.

The Dalish were notorious pragmatists and had little patience for errant whimsies and childish theatrics. But Cillian once again proved himself the exception to the rule and decided to humour his siblings as a means to assuage their feelings. He drop fed the water fowl a ground concoction of brewed herbs that would dull its response to pain and rubbed a pungent smelling ointment about the inside of its mouth to 'protect against infection'. With the aid of a sterilized tool which was most often used to bind objects together with nylon and a small, extremely sharp knife, Cillian made a small incision into the built up tissue and carefully worked the hook free. There was quite a bit of blood and the children took responsibility for sponging it up with a clean cloth; stroking the birds neck and making soothing noises. Assuring it that everything would be okay.

As a result of their kind and loving intervention, the fowl summarily died during the night. Likely from shock just as much from anything else. Svetlana and Dhavaro naturally blamed themselves for it and spent much of the following morning sobbing and twisting about in their bedrolls; asking the Gods why they had seen fit to take this innocent, undeserving water bird from the world. The rest of the clan assured the children that they would take responsibility for laying the fowl to rest. Svetlana was convinced that it had likely made its way to the cooking pot that night and refused to take a single bite of any of the meat that was offered her. Dhavaro's hide was promptly tanned for having ruined his new tunic in some madman's mission to improve the comfort of what was described by their sister as 'Some filthy feathered water rat.' He maintained even now that the reason he walked with a limp was because of Assan's proficiency with an old _Halla_ antler.

In spite of all this, it was Cillian's words that continued to stick with Svetlana, even all those years later. For in spite of the guilt that had just about drove the pair of siblings into pre-adolscent alcoholism, Cillian advised that they had in fact done a good and noble thing.

_"Don't ever let fear of the consequences prohibit you from taking action."_ He had managed to slip in during a lull in one of hers and Dhavaro's bedroll thumping crying fits. _"It is sad, but sometimes there simply is nothing that can be done to change the flow of the tide. Certain things are simply meant to be and there is no changing them no matter how much we wish that we might. That doesn't mean however, that you should ever stop_ trying _. The action is what matters, not the result. Because the actions speak of who_ you _are, Da'len's."_

Svetlana remembered the words as clearly as though they had been spoken into her ear. Staring at the wolf across the campfire, she remembered the pack that had seemingly come to her rescue as a young girl; the one that had been shot in the side and lay, whimpering and twisting on the ground. She had always wondered, to this very day, whether the wolf had survived or not.

It seemed however that this was not the night in which she would be receiving answers to those questions. The old wolf had grown tired of her company and, with a jaunty flick of its bushy tail, turned and limped off back the way it came, its outline growing more the faint as the darkness around it, bled over into the borders of its body. Svetlana felt the strange urge to call out to it, to invite it back to her side so that she might look the wounds over and clean them or bandage them or something. But she knew the wolf would not return. Not for anything short of food.

"A girl could take offence and think her company wasn't wanted." She muttered to no one, dragging in that last little puff from her pipe and then tapping out the exsanguinated ash into the fire. She cleaned the bowl with a tiny cloth she kept in her pocket for that exact purpose, placed the pipe back into her bag and staggered to her feet, giving her backside a dust off. "Well... time for some shut-eye, one supposes."

To prepare for bed, Svetlana first needed to ensure that her temporary camp site was as safe as she could make it. Temperate though her visit had been with the wolf, she doubted it would be so accommodating if it were to wander back during the night and find her asleep and vulnerable. The beast was desperate and hungry; a poor combination whence combined with a small, very eatable little elf such as herself.

To combat the likelihood of encountering unwanted night guests, Svetlana took from her bag a gnarl of string which she had used previously to make her snares. Keeping the spool in one hand, she marched ten paces out from the shelter, tied the end of the string to the trunk of a tree (roughly two to three feet off of the ground) and proceeded then to march through the undergrowth in a circle about the camp; winding the string about trees, saplings and bushes. When she had completed the circuit, she tied the string tight and then returned to her bag, taking out a small pouch in which she kept a series of small, brass bells that the Craftsmen had made. Each had a small slip of mouldable wire hooked through the top of them and it was these that she wound about the string at intervals of about a foot or so. It took a while, but the effort was worth it. Any animal large enough to want to cause her grief was not about to get over or under that twine without knocking at least one of those bells. Like most of the Dalish, Svetlana had learned to sleep light where required and she was not so concerned with getting a full nights rest as she was with keeping her face from being eaten off. She could rest up properly when she was back at the camp.

Satisfied with her efforts, Svetlana made a point then of kicking some dirt over the spot that the wolf had been digging into the fish; wanting to cover up the smell as much as possible. She took handfuls of earth from a pile she had made earlier and hefted these over the fire, continuing to do so until much of the smoke had dithered out of existence. She drank from her canteen, but only a small amount. Enough to whet her whistle but not enough, she hoped, to result in her needing to get up during the night and empty her bladder. That sort of thing needed to be done far away from the camp and she had effectively battened down the hatch for the night, which rendered such an endeavour very inconvenient.

Svetlana did a mental checklist in her head. The fire was out. All evidence of the meat was now gone and or covered up. Her trip line/alarm system was in place. Everything else was tucked into her little Podunk shelter. Seemed like the only thing left to do was settle in for the night and enjoy a likely rather the rough, uncomfortable and anxiety riddled slumber.

She dressed in layers, as the setting of the sun had naturally stripped much of the remaining warmth from the air and she would have no campfire on which to rely. The fire would only draw too much attention and could potentially get away from her if it wasn't being monitored. That had happened so many years back, with one of the older boys in the clan; he had 'forgotten' to extinguish his fire before going to sleep and a stray ember had leapt the borders, set fire to a very receptive bushel nearby and then joyously took off to spread havoc for a good fifteen hundred metres or so. Fortunately, he had camped just off to the south of where the clan had been situated and the smoke had been spotted before the fire itself travelled too far. It had been put out with the combined efforts of the clan and the young man had had a very firm talking to from a not so impressed Keeper. Svetlana would sooner avoid the embarrassment of such a display and the further potential delaying of her _Vallaslin_ and simply rug up with a few extra clothes. Hey, wasn't like she was impressing anyone out here.

Having dressed herself for the event of sleep, Svetlana tucked herself down into her little shanty and pulled the makeshift door in to block the entry. She went by touch, working her way about the borders of the horizontally placed sticks and feeling out the nylon cords she had tied about them. Fixing these then to the wooden supports that supported the canvas 'roof'. It was very dark and the process was gruelling and irritating but there wasn't much she could do about that. Simply knuckle down and get through it.

Once the doorway was 'locked' into place, Svetlana scooted herself back into where the canvas slanted most low; tucking herself into her bedroll and pulling up the blankets so that they tucked in just under her chin. Her bag rested just off to the left of her and her axe was within easy reach of her hand. The ground underneath was a little uneven and she suspected that she had missed a tree root when she had been feeling about the earth earlier, looking for a flat spot.

She yawned. The elfroot had helped her to feel relaxed, as she had hoped it would, but she still felt a contrary mix of bored and restless. A shitty combination right before bed. She thought about going through some of the philosophies in her head again (guaranteed to put her out like the snuffing of a candle wick) but took mercy on her poor, addled brain instead. Whatever this 'sign' was supposed to be, she doubted it was going to rock up because she kept going over the same shit in her mind. Over and over and over again. _'It's madness to do the same thing different times and to expect different results.'_ Cillian had said, in one of his many other sagely moments of sageliness. Such a smart older brother. Why were so many members of her family so intellectually gifted? She'd clearly muzzled into the 'Brawn' line when the creators had been passing out attributes in the Beyond. Loughlin had somehow managed to sweet talk his way into several lines at once, whilst entirely forsaking the 'Modesty' one. If that boy didn't grow up to be the prettiest, smartest, most talented thing that had ever graced Thedas, she would be very surprised. Of course, he might go the same way as poor Dhavaro. Curdle his brain and summarily disappear inside of himself. To the lone company of misery, alcohol and _shemlen_ drugs.

_What the fuck happened to him out here?_ Svetlana wondered, turning on her back and staring, unseeing, into the belly of the canvas that stretched out above her in the dark. _Did he just go insane with boredom, like I'm running the risk of doing? I mean... he was out here five days before the hunters heard the screaming. And they think he was screaming for a lot longer than just that time in which they were passing by... He had ulcerations in his throat and his voice was raspy. Blood in his mouth, wended between his teeth as though brush stroked by the hand of an expert artist..._

_How long had he been out here screaming?_ Why _was he screaming? The Keeper tells us that through devotion and meditation we will invite a sign and he clearly saw something that scared the absolute living shit out of him. Enough for him to near claw the Vallaslin of June into his face. From memory no less. It must have hurt like living hell for them to tattoo over his still healing scars, but he didn't even flinch. Just sat there; eyes as hoods, staring into the Fade, it seemed. As though all hope had been strained from his being like liquid from a sponge. Whatever he saw out here, it sapped his very essence from him._

_Will that happen to me?_

_We're brother and sister, after all. Only two years apart._

_He was always a sensitive child. Like me. Only so much better at everything. Not a soul alive would doubt that he was the stronger of the pair._

_We grew up together. He was energetic, strong minded. He would be the first to jump off of a sturdy branch and into the waiting arms of the uncharted river below. To beckon the rest of us kids in after him. To pave the way, as a natural leader should. And now look at him. The Lavellan drunk. Everyone stands around and laughs at him. Like what happened to him is just some big joke and he should simply move on from it. They don't appreciate enough of who he was before he walked into those woods with his head held high._

_I_ _t discredited them,_ she thought. Angrily. _To judge him. To not understand enough of the strength of his character, to negate whole heartedly the tremendous depth of who he was as an individual and appreciate in turn what terror there must exist in the world, for a strong, deeply rooted oak such as he, to be toppled so violently to the ground._

 

Svetlana blinked tears from her eyes; reaching up to wipe them from her cheeks and lashes. Dhavaro was only nineteen years old and his eyes had already taken on a distressing yellow caste. Something terrible was happening to his insides, she knew. She wept for him, her messed up older brother. She wept to know that something truly terrible existed in this world, that could break a valiant mind such as his and turn the very nature of his existence into derision and contempt. To be at the receiving end of a pointed, judging finger, the punch line of any number of belligerent jokes. And worse still; the standard by which everyone could forever comfortably compare themselves. _For whatever I am enduring, whatever is going on, at least I'm not as bad as Dhavaro Lavellan._

How ironic it was, that Dhavaro's name loosely translated to ' _oaken barrel'_. His name had become synonymous with that very phrase 'the bottom of the barrel'. A barrel he routinely managed to reach most every night of the week. He might have gotten himself excluded from engaging in the daily hunt, and though he wasn't so proficient as he had once been, he was skilled enough still to be considered 'functioning' and had only needed to be spoken to the once or twice by the Keeper. Svetlana loved him for that. Whatever anyone else thought of him, he would never denigrate himself to the point of being a burden to the rest of the clan. He strongly believed that the elderly and the infirm were in need of such support and she believed him sooner to take his own life, than to reach such a pitiful and despicable (in his own words) point.

It was by such sorrowful thoughts that Svetlana's busy mind eventually surrendered itself to sleep. There was no quality to it, for she didn't permit her body to sink into such a deep state of slumber and what rest she did attain was one marked by fitful turnings and evasive dreams. Those of the kind that would slip from your mind the second you awoke, and what you might then spend the day pondering over with irrasicable determination; waiting for some imperceptible trigger to 'break' the barriers that kept it out of sight.

Svetlana was used to waking before the sun and her body clock did not fail her in spite of the change of scenery. In the near darkness of her makeshift shelter, she rubbed crusty granules from her eyes; picking some of the more pervasive pieces from her lashes and easing each of her knuckles into the corners so as to work the weariness out of them. '

"Gods, I slept like _shit_." She grumbled to no one in particular. And then, as a commentary on the very thing that she was doing: "Svetlana, stop talking to yourself. You'll be two balls short of a Halla, you keep this up."

She rolled over, off of the lump that she suspected was a tree root and spent a few moments flexing each of her various limbs; working the feeling back into them one at a time. Getting through the night in one piece was an undeserving treat and though her sleep had been spotty and fractured, she hadn't woken to the sound of the wire being interfered with. A subsequent check, once she had crawled out from the shelter and toddled up onto her feet, assured her that neither the wolf, nor any of his woodland brethren, had come a-fussing.

The sun was still in the pre-contemplative stages of rising and as such, the air possessed yet a cool tinge to it. Svetlana pulled on her travel cloak, tying it tightly about her layered sleeping attire and hefted her axe up into the sling that crossed her shoulders. Stepping over the alert wire, she walked then the ten or fifteen minutes to where she had set up the snares the previous day. She had found a couple of self-made tracks that ran between weathered bushels and figured that these would be the perfect spot to set up a trip snare.

Sure enough, they had borne metaphorical fruit: a rabbit in the first, and a nug in the second. Svetlana never liked having to kill such innocent creatures for a meal but she was especially upset to see the nug hanging there from its stout little neck. Nothing for it however but to clean the body and ensure that the resources were used appropriately. Nothing worse, she thought, then to dishonour an animals sacrifice by disregarding the remains. To suggest that its little animal death meant nothing.

Such as the previous day, Svetlana cleaned the kills away from camp; desposing of the head, feet and entrails in the woods. She kept the pelts; which she would later wash and clean in the river, before storing them in her bag for eventual transfer into the custody of the clan Craftsman. She could skin an animal comfortably enough, but preparing the pelts for use in clothing and armour and the like... that was more than a little beyond her. A girl couldn't be expected to be a jack of all trades, after all. She would return later to reset the snares for the evening; when most animals were naturally up and about doing their nocturnal routine.

Back at camp, she stored the nug and the rabbit in a cooking pot and fixed the lid firmly on top; placing this inside of her shelter. She decided to attempt slow cooking the rabbit in a stew for her midday meal and settled on another few good handfuls of her trail mix for breakfast. She could have murdered a cup of tea (made from ground mixes of various herbs and plant products that the Dalish brewed in hot water) but decided to go and get washed up first before lighting the campfire again. She had a long day of fruitful (boring) meditation ahead of her and cleanliness was after all next to... something... something pro-Gods. Eh, she needed to be much more awake if she had any hope of getting this shit right.

Whilst undressing down by the river, the sun took to peeking through the branches of the surrounding trees, like a young boy staring from between his fingers at a sight he wasn't yet sure why he was so interested in. Svetlana was struggling to free herself from one very determined leg of her night breeches, when something came fluttering up into view and perched itself upon the end of her nose. Well, she very nearly went and fell backwards into the water, such was her shock! It seemed that the brightening of the morning had brought with it a small kaleidoscope of butterflies. The rest of the group circled nearby, playfully lilting and flirting about with one another. This one, for whatever the reason, saw fit to break rank and brought itself to perch on Svetlana's nose as though such a thing were not patently absurd.

"First the wolf, now _you_." Svetlana remarked, placing a hand over her heart and feeling it leap from within the cage of her chest. "I'll have gray hair by the time this is all over!"

The butterfly of course had nothing to say to this. It gave instead a graceful bow of its dark purple wings, each of them lightly grazing the rise of Svetlana's cheeks. She gently insinuated her finger up along the side of her nose, trying to encourage the butterfly to step out onto it but it simply shifted its legs over and reaffirmed its position. Subsequent attempts to send the butterfly on its way all ended similarly in failure. Such that, after attempting for much longer than any ordinary person ought to have spent on such a stupid task, Svetlana gave a careless shrug, uttered a, "Well, fuck it" and continued with getting undressed. She had already removed her upper garments and so the butterfly remained unmolested whilst Svetlana stripped down her pants and small clothes and set them in a ball by the river.

She waded in carefully, nose twitching at the tickling sensation the butterfly's tiny insect legs left against her skin. The water had not yet time to warm with the sun and so it was quite the frigid dip; leaving Svetlana shivering, grumbling and puckered in quite a number of unfortunate places. She was unable to wash her face, as the butterfly refused to dislodge itself and she was forced to resort to easing down into the water and dropping her head back to get her hair wet.

Of course, were it not for the overarching ephemeral principles of the situation, Svetlana wouldn't have gone to such efforts to respect the petty desires of a a glorified moth. She was however out here waiting for some manner of sign from the Gods... who was to say that this butterfly wasn't that very sign? She dared not risk either hurting or offending it; irrespective of the difficulties it presented in scrubbing out her blocked pores.

She had just in fact finished giving her underarms a good scrubbing and, feeling playful, she gave what she thought was a small puff of air up under the wings of the butterfly. It turned out, much as it always did whenever Svetlana went for subtle, to be a much larger gust of air and the butterfly was launched up off of her nose with all the drama of a peasant farmer being hurled from his wagon by an irritable giant. The insect too must have been caught by surprise, for it made no efforts to recover and instead came twisting down like a dead leaf; dropping inelegantly onto the surface of the water with nothing in the way of graceful aplomb.

Well, you can imagine Svetlana's distress. "Oh, shit. Oh shit, oh _shit_. Did I just drown one of the Gods?!" She quickly scooped both hands into the water in an attempt to pick the butterfly up, but it slipped from between her fingers and went straight back into the drink. "No, no, no!! Mythal's _tits_ I am screwed. There's got to be a special place in the Beyond for elves who kill their Gods, right?"

She managed through careful maneuvering (and no small amount of panic) to extricate the butterfly from its watery tomb and splashed her way back through the water towards the shore. She set the butterfly down upon the rock by her clothing, leaning over and with a much gentler breath than earlier, attempted to dry the butterflies wings. Its legs twitched and kicked, trying to free itself from the small puddle of water that had formed beneath it. Svetlana eased her finger in, letting the butterfly catch about it and then moved the insect over to a dryer patch of earth. She then continued to puff gentle breaths onto it. 

For all her frantic efforts however, there was nothing to be done to save the little butterfly. After some moments, its legs ceased their silent dance and a final, near imperceptible twitch went through its fragile little body. Svetlana stared at it. Looked to the lovely patterns on its purple wings; this delicate and wholly undeniable representation that was fleeting beauty in admittedly, rather heavy handed motion.

She took from the pocket of her sleep breaches a piece of cloth that she kept there for either wiping sweat from her forehead or blowing her nose, if need required. It was clean and she used this to carefully wrap up the butterflies delicate body. She looked over to where the other butterflies had been previously dancing and saw that not a single one of them remained.

She knew it was time to return to the encampment.

**~X~**

When meeting with the Keeper and the First, she took the handkerchief from her pocket and opened it to reveal the butterflies still perfect, yet despairingly sad body. She let it rest on the floor between them as she went, piece by piece through her, really rather limited experiences, out in the woods. Deshanna listened intently, as though Svetlana were telling her of the most fascinating and worldly tales imaginable. Upon hearing of the wolf approaching the camp however, she raised a hand from her knee; a temperate sign that nonetheless conveyed great weight.

"Before you continue, _Da'Hara_ , tell me in more detail of the wolf. Leave nothing out for fear that I might find the information unnecessary. I shall be the decider of that."

Svetlana cast her mind back to her previous nights guest. "He was old... that much was clear. The fur about his muzzle and nape were gray. His size suggests he was a proficient hunter at one point, but as he was going about business on his own, I would assume he's been kicked out of his own pack by a younger male. He had injuries to his ear, leg and face. He hadn't eaten in a while. The bones in his shoulders and side were showing."

"He was alone?" Cillian asked quietly, the eyes that were all too similar to Loughlin's peering shrewdly from beyond the wave of white hair that barely graced the side of his face. Svetlana nodded in response.

"There were no others that showed up. He looked... desperate."

Deshanna and Cillian said nothing, yet exchanged a meaningful glance. Svetlana knew better than to pry; if there was something they wished to share, they would share it. She'd received enough clips under the ear by this stage to know when not to push her luck.

"What did the wolf do, when it saw you?" Deshanna asked and Svetlana thought it curious the way in which she appeared to carefully measure her words. She wondered, perhaps unfairly, whether the Keeper was doing just as Loughlin had so often accused and adding weight to support a conviction she had already formed in her own mind.

"It just... stood there." Svetlana said, a little annoyed now to see Cillian narrow his eyes to form a subtle expression of disbelief. What, she wondered, was so hard to believe? "It was hungry. It smelt the food cooking."

"What happened next?"

Ah. This, she knew, might rouse disapproval. "I had eaten my fill. I felt... poorly for the beast. So I... I gave it the remainder of my fish to eat."

"Oh, _Da'Hara..._ " Cillian drawled, looking away and offering a small, expected shaking of the head. Svetlana felt her brows come in low over her eyes; the hair on the back of her neck bristle.

"Brother, it was starving! Perhaps you can abide suffering where it suits you, but I'm sorry - I am not made the same way!"

"You know quite well that that is far from the truth." Cillian said sharply and it was much a reprimand as anything she had quite ever heard. As the eldest of the siblings, Cillian did not have need to raise his voice as Assan did. Rather, the cool cutting clarity of his tone was conviction enough. And he had, through subtle reference to the past, made her to feel ashamed of such a loss of temper. "Be calm and courteous in your tone, _Da'len_. It is not Assan to whom you are speaking. There is no need for raised voices or defensiveness."

Svetlana thought this a little unfair. He had made a point, however slight, of expressing his disapproval. But she kept a lid on this particular observation, aware it wasn't likely to win her the points required to get to the heart of the matter. The _Vallaslin_. The Keeper would denounce her from proceeding further if she believed Svetlana lacked the maturity to undertake the ritual and this was the very worst slight of all.

"Please continue, _Da'Hara_." Deshanna prompted, her tone taking on that soothing sussuration which immediately sanded the sharp edges off of Svetlana's temper. She smiled softer still; encouraging. "You gave the wolf the rest of your fish. What then happened? How did the wolf react?"

"As to be expected." Svetlana responded honestly, and then, because the Keeper looked to be waiting further still, continued: "He flinched away a moment. Approached carefully. Its hunger won out, however and it took the fish. It lay down to eat it, the poor thing was so weak. I... I sang that old lullaby that mother used to sing." She saw a brushstroke of sadness pass across Cillian's eyes at that. "I guess the wolf didn't much like my singing voice, because he left after that."

"Did he return at any point during the night?"

Svetlana shook her head. "Not that I'm aware of. I set up a trip wire and nothing disturbed it while I slept. Didn't hear a thing and I woke up with all of my limbs still intact."

A look passed between Deshanna and Cillian that must have been very the telling between the two of them, but was inscrutible so far as Svetlana was concerned. They looked so stern and so serious concerning this, in her own mind, unremarkable occurence and Svetlana gave herself over to a nervous smile.

"From the look on your faces I'm starting to think that I sat down to a tea party with Fen'Harel."

"That is not a matter with which to make jokes, _Da'Hara_." Cillian scolded, a not often heard edge to his otherwise sombre voice.  It took Svetlana by surprise and she sat up so straight it was as though someone had shoved a sharp stick into the base of her spine. "Of course, it was nothing more sinister than a hungry beast but to make light of the Dread Wolf is to invite his attentions. Speak of him with an impudent tone and his eyes will turn on you. Leave that sort of talk to your fool brother."

Svetlana felt a little hurt by this. It was not often she found herself on the receiving end of her elder brothers reprimands and she hadn't yet developed the armour to deal with it. She uttered a quiet _'Ir Abelas_ ' towards the floor, so soft that her brother asked for her to repeat it so that it could be heard clearly. He looked the slightest bit assuaged after this and the buckle he had been wearing between his brows eased out.

"Cillian, I understand where you are coming from, but _Da'Hara_ means no harm in her humour." Deshanna stated, giving Svetlana that same encouraging smile as earlier. It never ceased to amaze how such a simple expression could so easily elevate her spirits. "Now, let us continue, or we shall never get around to applying your _Vallaslin!_ And so, the wolf did not return, so far as you are aware, for the remainder of the night. What else? I am assuming that this butterfly factors into the tale somewhere?"

Svetlana told them both about her getting ready for her morning wash in the river and how the butterfly broke from its circle to come and land upon her nose. How, in attempting to be playful, she had accidentally sent the little creature spiralling to its death. How she had attempted to 'revive' it but had been unable to bring it back from the Beyond.

"And then, I noticed, that the other butterflies had disappeared. As though they simply never were." Svetlana looked up from where she had been gazing at the insections modest funeral shroud. She had been lost once again in the patterns upon the butterfly's wings and their vibrant berry like colour. "I can't say why, but... it moved me, _Hahren_. And I thought, well... if anything could be taken as a sign..."

She trailed off, suddenly feeling very small and foolish. Could something so innocuous, so simple, truly be considered a sign? Was it not supposed to be something life-changing, something earth shattering? She could have kicked herself. It couldn't possibly be _this_. Not the death of an insect that most likely would have been dead by the end of the day, irrespective of her inteference.

"I was worried I might have killed one of the Gods." She added, thinking it might have helped explain her way of thinking and then realizing how utterly stupid this sounded. Why not just cap it all off by declaring that she was so damned bored and loopy in the woods that she would have taken that squirrel having a shit as sign if it got her the hell out of there?

Deshanna however, was kind, as she always was and leaned over, placing her fingers gently to Svetlana's chin. She urged her to raise her eyes, to look at her.

"Well, if it is any consolation, _da'len_ , I doubt that this butterfly was one of the Gods. So far as we know, the Gods remain locked away, far from the reach of our mortal clumsiness. And you are right, of course, to believe that something which 'moves you' can be taken as a sign. This is precisely what a sign _is_ , _Da'Hara_. Something that speaks to the very nature of what we are. What stirs in us. What motivates us. And you," she said, "Are motivated by something in which our world is in such terribly short supply, my dear girl. You are a kind, charitable soul. This, I have always known and now too, the Gods have seen fit to pay earthly credence to it. An animal which has been spurned not only by the world but by its own brethren, you give the last of your food to. An insect that might go unseen, you pluck from the water and make every genuine effort to save."

"It was my fault it fell into the water in the first place..." Svetlana murmured, perturbed by the obvious passion with which Deshanna was speaking. It was flattering yes, to hear of her better qualities spoken in such a way but the Keeper did seem to be interpreting a lot from some truly menial circumstances. It was honestly baffling. "And I still had trail mix, it wasn't as though I would starve if I gave the wolf a bite to eat..."

"How many others do you suppose would have thrown their boot to the wolf, rather than a scrap of food?" Deshanna insisted, her eyes giving that familiar fond twinkle they always had when she tried to convince Svetlana of her inherent worth. "How many would dismiss the butterfly as being nothing more important than an insect, rather than find value in even the smallest of lives?"

_I didn't think it was a small life. I thought it was an Elvhen God and I was about to have my arse hurtled into the Black City,_ Svetlana thought but did not say aloud. She was stubborn about such things in which she saw glaring inconsistencies, but for all her detracting, she heard a truth in Deshanna's words. A truth that the Keeper took to reinforcing, even as Svetlana took to muddling it over, hesitantly, within her own mind.

"Your words to your brother, 'That you cannot abide suffering'. Though you do not recognize it _Da'Hara_ , such idealism is not the marker of the fool but the maker of the truly enlightened. You are courageous and caring and you have a smile in your soul that cannot be denied." Deshanna carefully picked up the handkerchief and took to admiring the butterfly with care. She glanced up at Svetlana. "You say that it came to rest upon your nose."

Svetlana nodded. "Yes. I remember thinking it tickled, because its wings keep brushing against my cheeks."

Deshanna nodded in return, glancing from the corner of her eyes at Cillian. She held out the little shroud to him. "Cillian... do you see what I see?"

He took the small parcel and inspected the butterfly. The corner of his lips lifted in that very familiar crooked smile that all the siblings had been blessed with.

"Seems fitting. Given my sisters' preoccupation with berries most of the time."

Svetlana cocked her head slightly, not understanding where they were coming from. Even less when Deshanna stood up, brokered the distance between them and then knelt down close enough so that their knees met. She twisted her hands, one around the other and hooked her thumbs together; forming the shape of a butterfly. Slowly and with seemingly great reverence, she pressed the backs of her hands to Svetlana's face; allowing her hooked thumbs to rest against the bridge of her nose.

"It seems that Mythal has chosen you, _Da'Hara_." She declared, bringing her fingers down to press to the rise of Svetlana's cheekbones, just as the butterfly had done with its wings.

And so it was decided that Svetlana would receive the simplified _Vallaslin_ of Mythal. These were designed as matching branch like symbols, that traced back up from under her eyes, out over her temples and into her hairline. After spending some time in contemplation over the butterfly, the Keeper and Cillian came to the mutual understanding that the Vallaslin would be quite thick and the lines deeply pronounced. This was of course in keeping with the vibrant patterns on the butterfly's wings. The colour was of course chosen to be the same purple, with which Svetlana could not have been the more delighted. It was, coincidentally her favourite colour and dualistically an honour to wear what was likely to be such beautiful _Vallaslin_ upon her face. It was going to hurt like a son of a bitch, as they all did but she could only be grateful that they hadn't divined the marking of _Elgar'nan_ from her little trip into the woods. How those poor bastards kept from screaming the shanty down whilst receiving it, she never knew.

After conveying her thanks and respect to the Keeper and the First, Svetlana was advised to return to her family's lean to and to rest up for the ritual application the following morning. Her fears of having to give a repeated point by point run down of the following day were fortunately waylaid, as Assan had already left for the adjacent field where she attended to the Halla. Gods only knew where Loughlin was fucking about. Dhavaro was there, though he was in no fit state to be asking questions; having passed out naked on her bedroll (though thankfully, face down this time). Svetlana did the small mercy of draping a sheet over his exposed body, supposing that he must have gotten confused in his most recent drunken stupor; since, as a recognized adult, he no longer stayed in Assan's shelter and had separate accommodations on the far side of the camp. She was for the most part just relieved to not see a signature pile of vomit anywhere in the lean to.

To the melodic and soothing sounds of her brothers phlegm rattled snorts, Svetlana made temporary respite in Assan's bedroll; taking from her bag (she would unpack it soon, she lied to herself) her journal. As she scratched out the happenings of the past twenty-four hours, a thought came to mind that Svetlana found so disturbing that even in the warm of her tent, a shiver went down her spine.

When entering the woods, the children of the clan were asked to search for a sign. They had no way of knowing what any of these supposed 'signs' could be and it was often up to the Keeper and the First to divine the meaning from any number of innocuous things that might have occurred whilst they were killing time quintessentially sitting on their arses.

One thing was for certain; Svetlana had never heard of any two people's 'signs' being the same. Though she had been slated to bear the mark of Mythal, she was far from the first within the clan to have such an honour. And yet, no one had ever spoken of having a butterfly come blundering up on their face as the deciding factor for it.

No one could suggest it was not a benign occurence.

What manner of sign then, had been visited upon her once proud brother, to have sundered him so completely? To have rent his sanity so violently from his mind that he was left now scarred, damaged, diminished. Unable to tolerate a sober moment, for it risked bringing whatever horrors he had endured to horrific, unendurable clarity.

Whatever it was, she surmised, had been far from a fucking butterfly.

**~X~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: SPOILER. Putting it out there right now: The wolves are not related to Solas in any way shape or form. They are not avatars or mental projections or... I don't know, whatever other mystical shit they could be. They are a mental reference for Svetlana for the future if anything. There's no magical connection and pre-meeting, pre-established ethereal bond between him and Svetlana that encouraged him to send the wolves to her aid from where he's all curled up in the fade. That shit is just too much! Blurgh!
> 
> Anyhoo, one other little thing. When creating Svetlana I gave her the American voice actresses voice. Not even noticing the difference in accents. Glad I did though. It suits so much better for Svetlana. Has a sort of sexy, older, mature sounding quality. Though the English voice is lovely, it's a little more breathy and younger sounding and I really wanted Svetlana to have a stronger, womanly affectation. To each their own, of course. (Both female voices are splendid and the voice actresses did amazing jobs). Also, given the Dalish are based somewhat on the Native American culture, I felt that Svetlana's voice sounding more American kind of worked when interacting with the Dalish Elves in the Emerald Graves.
> 
> As such, this was the voice I gave her so if imagining how she sounds... it's the American voice!
> 
> Anyway (Way too much speech, as Sera would say) that is the end of the chapter! Part three coming soon. And then Part Four where I FINALLY get to take my first crack (no egg puns) at writing Solas. Oh Lordy, I can't wait. Wish me luck though! Ain't gonna be no easy endeavour. Need to go and listen to some Hallelujah. Feel free to like, Kudos and or comment or do some interpretive dance to celebrate. Whatever floats ones Aravel!
> 
> All my love from Solavellan Hell,  
> ~MadamMortis~xxx ooo
> 
> P.S On a more serious note, my love and my heart go out to my New Zealand neighbours and all members of the Muslim community during this dreadful time. As an Australian I utterly condemn the actions of the despicable man (and or persons) who committed this egregious act. Please take a moment today, everyone, to show some kindness in whatever fashion you feel most comfortable with. God knows, the world needs it more than ever. Love, hugs and cherishment to you all xxx ooo


	3. Sa'bella'shiral halen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wore the brilliant markings of Mythal; twin branches, each of an exquisite shade of purple such as that of a ripe plum. They were born from beneath her eyes, the point directed towards her nose, before breaking off into twin branches; each of which fanned out like transient stems on a steadily climbing vine. They hiked the hillocks formed by her cheekbones, seemed to strengthen them, enunciate them. Transgressed further still before seeming to disappear into the hair that bordered her temples, as though a clearly trodden path had wended to nothingness in the tangles of an uncharted woodland...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Dragon Age Inquisition and its characters, situations, storylines and heartbreaks do not belong to me. No remuneration is made through the plucking out of this little story. Or the invariable plucking at heart strings.
> 
> A/N: It's strange how much I've been enjoying expanding on the Dalish and their customs. I always had been hoping for more background on the Lavellan clan; just so as to further flesh out the elvish Inquisitor and was a little disappointed that you didn't get any direct interaction with them. I suppose this is just my means with which to scratch that particular itch. I mean, even if they get wiped out there's not much that's said in regards to it. You would think Inquisitor Lavellan would be the slightest bit cut up about it.
> 
> Obviously, a little bit more of a look into Svetlana's history; specifically, that ever so important plot point: the Vallaslin!

_**The Free Marches: 9:28 Dragon...**  _

 

The time in which a young Dalish receives their _Vallaslin_ is considered to be the most important and defining moment of their life. Greater yet even then their Bonding, the birth of their first child, or any other subsequent milestone that might be deemed of some irrevocable importance in the grand scheme of things.

The _Vallaslin_. The representative bridge into adulthood; the casting aside of childish things and receiving, in turn, the consummate acceptance of their clan and furthermore, firmly establishing their place within it. Children after all, had little to prove; their place was unconditionally secured, at least temporarily, by the very fact that they were born into the clan itself. But an adult must earn their place and continue to earn it, long after the marks on their face had healed. Enduring the _Vallaslin_ was merely the stepping stone into this world. And a painful one at that, so Svetlana was to learn.

The morn following her woodland retreat, Svetlana was woken by her sister long before the sun had flirtatiously broached the lip of the surrounding hills. It was dark still and through the open gap in the lean to, she could see that the stars were out. An obscene and rather stomach churning time to be awake, truly.

"Up, up. Come on, _up_." Assan ordered, tugging Svetlana's limp body into a sitting position by the arm. "Don't you _dare_ lie back down!" She snapped, for Svetlana was already in the midst of slumping back into her bedroll, eyes still determinedly gummed shut as a result of a very mediocre nights rest.

"I'm coming... I'm comin'..." She slurred, convincing no one, much less herself. She groped for the sleep shirt that she had cast nearby, having shed its muggy bonds during the warm night. A dim orange glow warmed to life in the corner of her vision; Assan having lit one of the self-contained lamps that hung suspended from the upper most brace of the lean-to. She heard her sister hushing and cooing, marching about with a padded sling around her shoulders and one palm petting the bulge that eased the material down in the front. Her daughter, Mahera, less still than five months old, was remarkably quiet amidst all the fussing that was going on around her. Svetlana could only hope she would be fortunate enough to be blessed with such a sweet, patient child one day. Seemed unlikely, given her own fidgety personality, but a calm enough father could hopefully balance such traits out.

Svetlana felt a slap to her right cheek; not hard enough to be considered cruel but sharp enough to jolt her eyes apart and shake away the last lingering vestiges of sleep. Assan stood over her, night shirt fisted in one hand whilst the other continued to carefully balance the weight of her sleeping daughter.

"Don't just sit there _staring_ , for the gods sake! The Keeper is waiting. Come on now, arms up." She freed both hands just long enough to yank apart the collar of the shirt and shoved it down forcefully over Svetlana's messy head, catching the edges of her ears in the process and giving them a good scrape. Svetlana had little time to voice a complaint, as her arms were then, one at a painful time, wrenched up through the billowy sleeves of the shirt. "Quickly now. Pull the bottom down and let us get moving."

"Could you both maybe... do the moving thing a little more quietly?" Loughlin grumbled irritably from somewhere in the shadows behind the lantern. "Some of us might still want a few hours extra sleep."

" _Lethallin_ you will be in for a very rude awakening in a few years time when you're rousted out of your cosy bedroll at daybreak to go hunting." Assan snapped, reaching one arm down into the darkness to where Loughlin was likely swaddled. Whatever it was she did Svetlana couldn't say but it was enough to make Loughlin yelp out loud and then hiss at his sister like an angry cat. "Oh, hush up, or you'll get another. And on that note, I had better not hear that you were a no show for your lessons today. I don't care how clever you suppose yourself to be, you know far less than what you think. You will sit and you will learn and you will be _contrite_."

"I will _sit_." Loughlin replied as means of negotiation. Assan growled her displeasure but clearly saw little point in arguing the rub with him and slouched away from his bedroll with a look on her face which suggested that it was Svetlana who was about to shoulder the fallout. Fearing as much, Svetlana immediately went into damage control; tugging her shirt down into place and extricating herself so deftly from the blankets of her bedroll that she barely touched the sides in the process. Assan's temper was only likely to worsen the longer she took to get herself ready and so speed and compliance here was absolutely key.

Svetlana crouched by her adornments box, taking out her jar of wax and twisting the cap off in one fluid flick of the fingers. Her hair hung in limp chunks about her face, a natural hinderance when applying the _Vallaslin_. As it was too short to tie back, she would need to groom and fix it before attending the Keeper's lean to.

"No, no. Don't worry about _that._ I've got a headband." Assan said impatiently, pulling a stretchy black loop of material over Svetlana's head in a method not dissimilar to that utilized by the  _shemlen_ hangman when preparing someone for execution. Instead of choking her with it (something she was quite certain her sister earnestly wished to do at times) Assan yanked the foremost part of the loop up, pulling Svetlana's bangs off of her forehead and pinning them out of the way.

As she tucked some still loose strands of hair in, she glanced over her shoulder and cast a reproachful gaze back towards the shadows in which Loughlin resided. "Wish your sister luck, _lethallin_."

Now that her eyes had had time to adjust, Svetlana could see the outline of her brothers body, forming an indignant hump within his blankets. From this bundle, a hand slowly slithered its way out, like a snake twisting its lithesome path from beneath the shadow of a log and gave a limp, unenthusiastic flick that one might have interpreted as a wave.

"Best wishes on your impending loss of identity and surrendering of autonomy, _Da'Hara_."

"Thankyou Loughlin. That's very sweet." Svetlana chuckled, her laughter terminating into a strangled cluck as Assan's eyes narrowed unappreciatively. A silent rebuke for having encouraged her younger brother's cheek. She took Svetlana by the arm, twisted her and then set her hand firmly to the globe of her arse; shooing her out of the lean-to. She brought the lantern, though handed it to Svetlana so that she could focus her attention on supporting her daughter. Her lips had pursed together so tightly that Svetlana feared she might suck the rest of her face into her mouth with the force of her ill-tempered vacuum.

"He behaves that way because you indulge him, Svetlana." She said, her gaze cast off toward the interior of the camp and teeth gnawing at her lower lip irately. Svetlana let Assan her discontent, using the opportunity instead to peek into the sling about her sisters neck, getting that oft familiar melting sensation about the heart when she saw her infant niece swaddled up in there.

Assan was a woman, not unlike any other. And much like any woman, she was subject to temptations; even in spite of her vehement protestations concerning the matter. Some months prior, she had fallen for a man from another clan; a clan which rarely crossed paths with the Lavellan's, who roamed primarily to the North of the Free Marches. This man had of course said all the right things, made all the glowing declarations of love and admiration and veneration. It was quite enough for Assan to surrender to her otherwise steadfast impulses and she had lain with him, quite likely on the more than one occasion. Of course, she had likely felt that he fully intended to bond with her. Such things were even the readily more encouraged with Dalish from outside clans; hence why they were often invited to meet and come together when occasion allowed. As a prevention against inbreeding or clan dissemination or in-fighting.

Unfortunately for poor Assan, her would-be lover had had no intention of bonding with her. Especially upon discovering she had fallen pregnant. He had returned to his clan, seeming not the least concerned about leaving behind a child in doing so. Assan's heart was summarily broken, a fact which earned both sympathy and rightful fear from her siblings. Assan was not exactly known for her soft and temperate disposition when even in the best of moods. And hers was then considered more than an unfortunate situation, at best.

Dalish custom strongly discouraged, to the point of near prohibiting the termination of pregnancies. The reason for seeking such an option had to be extremely compelling. Svetlana could only remember one such case being approved and this had been in a neighbouring clan; where one of the young hunters had been assaulted and subsequently impregnated by a _shemlen_. Elvhen children were highly valued among the Dalish, for they represented the continuing future of their people; considered to be the purest of Elvish descent. But children conceived through the union of Elves and humans took on all genetic aspects of the _shemlen_. They were referred to as _halflings_ but for all intents and purposes were born genetically human. Perhaps it was not the rape then that was the compelling factor in this poor woman's situation but the fact that her child would have been _shemlen_ and therefore, a great inconvenience to the clan in their dealings with them. Whatever the case, a termination had been approved.

Assan was about as traditional a Dalish elf as you could find. Cultural prejudices aside, Svetlana knew full well that her sister would sooner chew her own leg off at the ankle than terminate a pregnancy. Though it had brought her great pain to do so, she brought the infant to full-term; adding this to her seemingly never ending list of responsibilities.

Svetlana had, for her part, done everything she could to be of help with the baby. She was especially fond of children, and they in turn appeared to find her an endless source of amusement; cajoling to her at any given hour of the day, _'Da'Hara! Da'Hara_! Stop-Start! Stop-start!' A game in which Svetlana was expected to face the opposite direction, allow the children to creep up behind her and then turn on the spot; by which point they were to freeze. Otherwise, she would give chase and the youngsters would sprint away, squealing and giggling as Svetlana bounced and heckled along behind them; arms held up as claws above her head as though fully intending to devour any youngster unfortunate enough to fall before her. If not for her proficiency as a Hunter, many in the clan had thought her well suited as a Minder to the children, for her connection with them seemed ever quite so natural as a practiced mothers might have been.

A baby was of course an entirely different set of responsibilities, but Svetlana felt that they had all pulled together admirably in support of Assan during what was indubitably a difficult time. Even Loughlin, who one would think could care less for anything that would concern his eldest sister, lent a hand where his niece was required. He did so, in fact, with as much as close to a spring in his step as Svetlana ever supposed possible. Everyone had a soft spot for something, one assumes.

Svetlana put the smallest, lightest of kisses to her nieces forehead. Prayed that it wasn't enough to wake her. This was quite risk enough for Assan however, who put a hand to her upper chest and steered her away as though she had approached her daughter with a poisoned dagger and genuine of intentions to use it.

"Don't wake her, for the love of the _Elgar'nan_! This morning is going to be long enough without the need to nurse a squalling baby through it! Now, listen." She took the lantern from Svetlana's hand and walked forward a few steps, gesturing with her head for her sister to follow her. She did so, stifling a yawn that threatened to give away her very true feelings on the matter as she did. "When presenting yourself before the Keeper and the _Vallas'haren_ it is imperative that you remain calm and poised. Be respectful at all times. Cast yourself to a separate place within your mind, somewhere beyond the pain and endure. _Suledin, Da'Hara_. The pain is itself momentary."

Well, Svetlana felt still so tired and numb from sleep that she thought it a rather simple thing to show respect, for it would be as routine as brushing ones teeth or tying on ones foot wraps. But she reassured her sister all the same, advising that she would indeed behave well and then allowed herself to be tugged along, such as a fish on a line, to where the Keeper's lean to was arranged near the _Aravel's._

Cillian greeted them when they arrived, and if Svetlana thought herself tired, she could not even imagine how her elder brother might have been feeling. He, the Keeper and the _Vallas'haren_ had been up for some hours already, preparing that which required preparing. And what, with his two children, Cillian likely averaged only a few hours sleep each night as it was. He was formidable really, Svetlana thought and felt a rush of pride for her sibling, for his commitment to his responsibilities and how he somehow managed to preserve a kindness in the face of what was quite likely a near constant and yet overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. The lines about his eyes suggested his weariness but he did not voice it and smiled quite as warmly as he always did.

He brought them into the first 'room' of the lean-to and here they were invited to greet both the Keeper and the _Vallas'haren_. The _Vallas'haren_ was an elected elder whose specific job it was to mix and prepare the sacred inks for use in the Vallaslin. Though it was the Keeper whose job it was to apply the Blood-writing, it was the _Vallas'haren_ who would prepare most everything else that was to be used during the ritual. They would carve the six point needles from Iron-Bark and secure these to the flexible willow stem; the tool with which the application of the tattoo would be applied. They would prepare the ink; the colour having already been selected by the Keeper and their First and be then responsible for the drawing of the _Da'len's_ blood. To unequivocally ensure the bond between the elf and the God who had chosen them, it was imperative that their blood be bonded to their Vallaslin; to create that tie, that promise to serve, to honour.

The _Vallas'haren_ of the Lavellan clan was, at that time, an older man called Tevarhas; of whom Svetlana knew little. Only that he seemed rather short and gruff and had once put the side of his foot to her leg when she had been sitting in the way of the communal cooking pot one night; knocking her onto her side and spilling her stew all over the ground. He didn't look much kinder right then and the fact that he was sharpening a blade against a razor strop did little to assuage her fears. He didn't look mean; just bored, in such a way that Loughlin would likely have admired and worked to affect in his later years.

Deshanna did however greet her amicably, asking that she come and kneel on a padded cushion that she had set nearby. She took Svetlana's hands in her own and explained what was going to happen in soft, soothing tones that would have been more the reassuring if they hadn't contained the words, 'Cut', 'Blood', 'Needles' 'Pain' and so forth. The _Vallas'haren_ waited nearby; blade sharpened and anxious to place the parting to her flesh and his gaze turned towards the roof of the lean to as though he was quite shot of all this molly coddling and wished simply to get on with it. Such was his obvious disdain with having to wait around for her to be ready that Svetlana advised the Keeper, as politely as possible, that she was fine and dandy and more than ready to toss caution to the wind and get things moving. In fact, though she was not a squeamish sort, she did feel a little sick and could only hope that the _Vallas'haren_ was more careful with that blade than his apparent impatient guise seemed to suggest.

The blood was taken from Svetlana's hand and she kept her face carefully poised, as was instructed, whilst the razor sharp iron-wood blade was introduced to her left palm. She supposed her lip might have twitched and she gave a deep, childish, yet entirely internal whimper at the burning sting which erupted from her flesh but gave nothing else.

Her hand was guided over a deftly crafted bowl; the colour of a late harvest mushroom. Her blood looked vibrant in comparison, streaming so resolutely down along the lines of her palm, only to drip, drop by anticlimactic drop, into the base of the bowl. Not a great deal of blood was required to mix with the ink, and Cillian was quick to apply a healing spell to her hand when a small pool had been gathered and transferred to the receptacle in which the _Vallaslin's_ ink had been previously mixed. Amidst Svetlana's nervousness she was buoyed to witness the flagrant purple hue that had been chosen. It would match near perfectly the lip stain she was so fond of wearing, the colour of the berries to which she was so beguiled. Thank goodness the Keeper had divined from her experiences a colour to which she felt most earnestly attracted. Though she loved Cillian, Svetlana could not imagine having gone through life with Vallaslin the same yellow as the medicinal salve used to treat rashes.

Having contributed her blood, Svetlana was then invited to wash herself. Which came as something of a relief, given that she was in the habit of doing so promptly after rising from her bedroll and had been feeling particularly out of sorts for not getting to it thus far. Bathing was the very thing that helped her to wake properly of a morning; the coolness of the water a welcome aid in shaking free the last remaining shackles of sleep.

This was why, after having shed her sleep shirt (by which point Cillian and the _Vallas'haren_ made themselves busy with other duties) she was surprised to find the Keeper leading her into a sectioned off partition of the lean-to, in which a large, wooden tub had been placed. Steam rose lightly from the milky coloured surface and the air had taken on a strong, aromatic scent, which Svetlana recognized distinctly as Embrium and, fainter yet, Prophet's Laurel. The Keeper explained in soft cadence as she guided Svetlana into the tub, that the botanicals were not just a means to get her properly scrubbed clean but to open up the pores in her skin. The best means by which to ensure that the ink would correctly enter the flesh when the tattooing process was undertaken.

Though she washed and cleaned as requested, Svetlana was finding it rather the more difficult to stay awake. In direct contrast to her run of the mill morning dip, the warm water in the tub was having the opposite effect and making her feel drowsy. She perched there, contented and cosy, upper thighs pressed to her chest (the tub was rather the modest in size) and scrubbed half heartedly at the soles of her feet. Made a somewhat concerted effort to keep her cheek from sinking down onto her knee. Once or twice, her sister would appear from some previously unnoticed corner and bring her back to business with an admonishing poke of the finger. Though Svetlana appreciated the need to take the ritual seriously, another part of her was starting to envy the _shemlen_ and their reported love of bathing in such a way. Only infant Dalish and very young children were ever washed in warm water, because the effort of heating such a vast amount of water was of course overtly decadent and time consuming. Svetlana wondered if part of the reason she was enjoying it so much was because of some unconscious memory of being bathed by her departed mother? It had been a long time since she had felt so safe and at peace...

Little did she know that this was but a brief respite in what was to be a very long, very uncomfortable morning.

After scrubbing herself clean, Svetlana was supported by her sister to dry and dress in a clean white slip. The Keeper then guided her to a wooden platform; similar to a table, though positioned much lower. Fabrics had been placed along the length of it, so as to provide some ease of comfort to the elf intended to lay themselves upon it but the platform was primarily designed to support the efforts of the Keeper. Applying the Vallaslin was a delicate, tiring process for all involved and the technique required to do so meant that the arm and hand of the Keeper must be steady and strong at all times. The platform allowed them to occasionally rest their elbow and take some of the weight off. Thus in turn preventing the muscles from trembling and resulting in any unfortunate errors. The discomfort of the _da'len_ was seen, rightly so, as secondary to this.

Svetlana seated herself on the edge of the platform and then twisted sideways so as to lay upon her back, eyes tured to the ceiling. She hadn't long to appreciate the view, for the _Vallas'haren_ was shortly returned to her side, bringing with him a bowl filled with strong smelling, yellow coloured strips of material floating in water that had about the same look and smell as urine. One by one, the _Vallas'haren_ draped these hot, pungent smelling strips of cloth across her face. Room was left for her nostrils and a slit for her mouth but every remaining section of skin was covered.

Suffice to say, the stench was overwhelming. The material had been steeped overnight in a mixture of herbs that were intended to further purify the skin, distend the pores and sterilize against possible infection. _Of course, there is likely nothing in there for pain,_ Svetlana thought miserably. Though the salve did have a rather delightful side effect of staining the skin a viscus yellow colour, which, due to its unsightly appearance, was the reason as to why the newly adulted _da'len_ was debuted three days after their _Vallaslin_ had been applied. Time enough for the stain to fade.

Svetlana thought the material very hot and she could feel the sweat starting to drip and flow down along her neck. At length, the _Vallas'haren_ placed an absorbent towel beneath her chin to keep the sweat from dirtying her body. She lay as such for the better part of a half hour, taking small sips of water to keep dehydration at bay. When the _Vallas'haren_ was satisfied that she had been sufficiently broiled, he removed the strips of fabric from Svetlana's face and encouraged her to sit up. He then took to her with a graded loofah; which had been dipped into a paste of some sort of salt scrub. He scoured her face in small circular patterns and with such determination she earnestly wondered whether she might have inadvertently insulted his mother's virtue at some juncture. Her skin was already far too sensitive from the earlier steaming treatments and this quite simply felt as though he were a dwarf intent on mining her flesh for veins of lyrium. She was quite convinced some of her own veins might have ruptured with how deeply he felt to be rubbing with that bedevilled sponge.

 Svetlana was determined to remain quiet (if only to prevent her sister from yelling at her later) but she must have done something with her face that alerted the _Vallas'haren_ as to her discomfort, because he said, "I wouldn't cry if I were you, _da'len_. The salt in those tears'll burn like fire they drop on your skin now!"

A warning quite enough for Svetlana to, through pure force of will, to suck the tears back into the ducts from whence they came. She knew that from somewhere nearby, her sister was scowling with those perfectly pouted lips of hers, shaking her head and beseeching the gods as to why she had such a painfully weak willed little sister. Svetlana pushed back into the farther reaches of her mind as best as possible; tried to divorce herself from the pain. One might have thought her especially noble; that she went to great pains not to disappoint her sister. One might not have known Svetlana very well then, for it was because she did not wish to receive the telling off that might otherwise have been coming in the evening that she fought so hard to prove herself.

After what seemed to be an eternity of this harsh treatment, the _Vallas'haren_ finally put the dreadful sponge away. Svetlana felt certain that most of her face had gone along with it and wondered faintly what might be left on which to ascribe the _Vallaslin_.

Deshanna took up her place beside the platform then, kneeling on a padded cushion in order to preserve her knees. She wore her familiar kindly smile, which, as it so often did, eased much of Svetlana's nerves. In one hand she held a small pot and it was into this that she dipped the tips of her fingers. She applied to Svetlana's face a cool, soothing salve, something which came as an enormous relief after her earlier treatment. Her skin was already so tender, she wasn't certain she would be able to endure the blood writing without screaming the camp awake.

When the salve had been evenly distributed, the Keeper used a dull reed and some plain ink to stencil on the faint outline of the _Vallaslin_. As the blood writing was a means of honouring the Gods and not ascribed to vanity, the Keepers did not often concern themselves by consulting the _Da'len_ as to their thoughts. But Deshanna was nothing if not indulgent of her young charges and so, when she had measured out the stencil to her exacting visual specifications, she took up a small mirror and held it over Svetlana's face.

"Now, I don't know about you my girl, but I believe that bone structure such as yours will pay wonderful tribute to Mythal." She said, eyes twinkling with the evidence of her teasing. Svetlana gazed at her reflection in the mirror, examining each of the branched wings that curved up under her eyes and split across her temples. At length, Assan came over for a look; using both hands to nurse her child up close to her chest. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she examined the design.

"Not the full mark of Mythal then, _Hahren_?" She asked and Svetlana sighed internally because it was precisely what she had expected her sister would ask. Deshanna explained, in her usual calm and collected manner, that it was the abbreviated sign that the All mother had indicated when having approached Svetlana. Though it was as good and as proper an answer as any, Svetlana knew that he sister would always partially believe that she had fabricated the story of her sign, simply so as to have as little of her face tattooed as possible. Which seemed an unfair thing to believe really, as it was far more within the realm of what Loughlin might do.

"It seems a little minimalist." Assan murmured in what might have been an offhand manner, if it had not in fact been loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Perhaps as to then offset the fact that she had unintentionally shown disrespect, she hovered a perfectly groomed fingernail over each side of Svetlana's face. "I noticed that you have drawn it a little higher than what I have seen previously. I'm curious. Is there any particular reason, _Hahren_?"

"It is to draw attention to her cheekbones." The Keeper explained, lightly tapping her index finger to the peaked ridge of bone beneath Svetlana's eyes. "And to balance out the features of her face. Svetlana is naturally a little heavier in the jaw and so by raising the edges of the Vallaslin, even infintesimally such as this, it brings the focus of the eye upward. Just one of my many little tricks, _Da'len_. Such as I did when deepening the branches of the Vallaslin on your forehead, ever so slightly. Here." She indicated a spot on Assan's blood writing, just about the central bow of her brow. "To further highlight that lovely shape of your brows. You see?"

Assan seemed satisfied with such an answer (anything that might have improved Svetlana's otherwise plain appearance was always positive in her mind) and she so eased on her line of questioning. Deshanna requested then that the _Vallas'haren_ , Cillian and Assan wait in the adjacent section of the lean to, which she blocked off by dropping a screen of thick material between the entryways. Svetlana had been feeling moderately relaxed up until this point but now her heart started to hammer away, so that she felt altogether too much like the animal for which she had been nicknamed. Assan flashed her one last pointed look before the fabric dropped into place. It was a look which said she would be very disappointed if Svetlana were to let her down in some way. It did not help.

The Keeper must have sensed that she was becoming anxious, or else had been doing this so long that she was simply more atune to what the young ones were likely to be feeling at any given point in time, because she said:

"Put that out of your mind. There is no expectation here that matters other than your own." She knelt by the platform, placing her hand atop both of Svetlana's; which were folded across her chest. "If you are ready, then you are ready. If you are not, then you're not. Every child is different and there is no shame if now is not the right time for you. Remember; it once took our ancestors years to come of age."

Svetlana knew the words were intended to comfort her, but they did little to ease the gnawing, aching sensation that had lain claim to the gallows of her chest. Such endorsements would be of small solace to her sister, especially so in wake of the perceived disappointment that was her brother Dhavaro. Assan had taken what had happened to him as something of a personal slight; experiencing great shame on account of her direct affiliation with the 'Lavellan Drunk'. Svetlana knew she did not place great faith in Loughlin either; given how head strong and outspoken the boy was, and at such a young age. It was she who bore the responsibility of redeeming her family, of restoring their honour. So far as her sister was concerned, it seemed. Falling short here and now simply was not an option. She would never hear the end of it.

"Silence now." Deshanna said, unfolding the leather satchel in which the sterilized tools used to apply the _Vallaslin_ was kept. As she watched, the Keeper firmly affixed the six point needle head to the shaft of the pliable reed handle, using such intricate knots and twists to keep it in place that you would never suspect it was in fact a separate implement. The reed was then slipped through a long thin brace, made from four wooden shafts. This was used to balance the tattooing needle; to hold it in place whilst the Keeper applied the fast, methodical movements that were required to puncture the skin.

Deshanna placed the needle and its brace aside for the moment and set then, within easy reach, the receptical in which the ink and blood had been mixed. She stretched out her hand, placed her palm over the surface of the liquid within and murmured soft words that evoked some manner of magic; transmuting as a warm glow within the interior of the bowl itself. A spell, intended to invite the blessings of the God who had so selected the elf as their charge. It gave the ink a sort of dim glow when applied; something that reportedly frightened the living ends off of most _shemlen_ should they have the misfortune to stumble across a Dalish in the dark.

Deshanna stood and walked the room once, ensuring that the lanterns provided adequate light and set a stick of incense to burning. The scent was unfamiliar, but Svetlana supposed it was intended to be calming. Given the pain that followed shortly thereafter, she felt the Keeper might have done well to have fired up about fifty of the things.

Svetlana knew she must be brave in light of what was coming and decided that the best course of action was to pin her eyes shut and bear down mentally; so as to block out much of what was going on on the outside. She would be as still and as unmoving as a mountain; troubled not by the tiny, inconsequential stingings of the blistering wind as it lashed to its sides. She thought she was perhaps doing a very splendid job of preparing herself but the Keeper's small, somewhat amused sigh made her think otherwise.

" _Da'Hara_. I cannot be expected to get the markings straight if you screw up your face like you have just sucked on an _etates_." An _etates_ was a sort of plum found in the Northern marches which possessed a frightfully sour taste. Deshanna chuckled softly as Svetlana went to great strains to relax her face, such that the weight of it felt to drop dramatically down through her jaw. "Now; cast your mind far and wide, such as a net. When pain gathers, imagine that you are scooping it out with your hands and returning it to the far reaches of the ocean. Do this until the net is clear. All will be well. Silence, now."

Years later, when asked by her friends in the Inquisition what her experience of receiving the _Vallaslin_ was like, Svetlana had both a long and a short version to tell. The short version was, poetically a very succinct response given in correspondence with a complimentary wide eyed visage. " _Ow."_ When asked for more detail, she said that the only way to describe it was the feeling one might have if they were to take a knife and drag its dulled tip over and over across the same spot. She felt each tiny prick of the needle as it punctured her skin; acutely similar to the time she had been stung by a wasp as a child. The beastly thing had clung to her and persisted in stinging her, right along the length of her back (it had gotten caught up under her clothing whilst she had been bathing.)

The pricks of the _Vallaslin_ needle, if void of the lingering sickness evoked by the venom of the wasps stinger, had that same, sharp, offensive quality. Svetlana kept her lips pressed together so tightly when the Keeper first started, terribly afraid that she might sprain them such was her consternation in keeping them shut. It was better yet than letting out any little squeak or whimper that might otherwise have sprung to life. Her fists had turned into knots of stone on her chest. Tears welled traitorously to life in the creases of her eyes and Svetlana feared that this would be enough of a sign of weakness to force the Keeper to stop. But Deshanna said nothing of it. She did however once dab at them with a piece of cloth she had pulled from somewhere but then continued on with her task as thought nothing had disrupted her at all. Svetlana thought it remarkably kind of her. Another Keeper might not be so forgiving.

The blood writing itself took great skill on the part of the Keeper. For a more simple _Vallaslin_ such as that which Svetlana would wear, the markings would be completed in one sitting. For some of the more intricate designs, such as that belonging to _Elgar'nan_ , the individual might be required to return for any number of subsequent sessions and give more blood so as to appropriately balance out each offering of ink. Svetlana couldn't even begin to imagine what this would be like; her own _Vallaslin_ , modest in comparison, already hurt far worse than anything she had ever experienced in her so far short life. To have one entire side of your face pricked and pricked until it was covered over? It was a blessed wonder that the young elves didn't faint from the pain of it!

It required great strength and focus on behalf of the Keeper as well. The tools needed to be perfectly balanced as the ink was applied, which was done so by distributing infinitesimal tiny dots along the length of the already applied stencil. The Keeper was required to make fast, repeated pricks of the needles, pausing only to reapply the ink or take a quick break. The ritual was incredibly wearing on the wrists and Deshanna did already suffer from some age related joint pain.

Not that you would suspect she ever struggled, owing to the quality of the work she produced. Deshanna was considered, amongst the Dalish, as being truly exemplary in her craft; her designs praised for the vibrancy of their colour, the glow they acquired and the elegant beauty she somehow managed to instil where others might have created more ham-fisted interpretations. Such was her renown that she was often asked to preside and or consult over the _Vallaslin_ rituals of neighbouring clans. Though she never divulged just as to how she managed to make her designs dance that perfect line between reverential and attractive. That was something she preserved for the members of her own clan and for them alone.

It wasn't long before Svetlana's skin began aching in the most terrible way. The flesh encasing her cheekbones was naturally quite close to the bone itself and hurt dreadfully just from this fact alone. But the Keeper and the First had divined from the strong patterns on the butterflies wings that Svetlana's _Vallaslin_ was to be thickly lined and as such, the markings needed going over three times in all to ensure that they were pronounced enough. How she kept from wailing she didn't know, for the repeated piercings to her already tender and sensitive flesh felt the cruellest thing ever. Her toes felt sprained from how tightly she had curled them in towards the pads of her feet and her fingernails, though short, had cut into her palms she later found. She bore down on the pain with everything she had; tried to disassociate from it. She thought of how beautiful she would look when the Vallaslin was completed, how proud she would feel to wear such exquisite markings on her otherwise plain face. To pay tribute and reverence to the People, to hold in deepest reverence and respect their lost world; to take that vow, through this act, to always strive and fight with every breath to preserve their sacred culture, their disparate past.

If not for such thoughts, Svetlana might very well have given up. The pain made her light headed at times, made her want to lash out reflexively, to pull her head away. To nip even, at the fingers that kept returning with that horrible bushel of ink covered needles. It said a great deal, she thought, about the class and decorum of elves; that a _Da'len_ could sit and allow themselves to be fundamentally tortured from anywhere upwards of an hour to several dozen hours and do precious little besides clench their fists and internally whimper. It was by about the time that the third application was going on that the worst of the pain had diminished (or else, Svetlana had just grown somewhat numb to it) and the relief in itself was just about as debilitating as the earlier anguish had been. A small tendril of pride wound its way through her once tight chest as she realised that, yes, _yes_ , she was going to be able to do this. She had survived this and she hadn't moved away, cried out or given up. If she had not done so by now, then the worst was over! It was a feeling so strong, so overwhelming that it took everything to hold back the tears that threatened to leak out but she managed this too.

At long last, the needle ceased what had been its, until now, linear path and the Keeper moved about to a few, seemingly unrelated points; perhaps thickening the markings where they had not taken so well on the first rotation. It stopped then and Svetlana felt Deshanna's fingers press lightly to each side of her jaw. She rotated her face, slowly, from side to side. Taking one last look at the work she had done. And then, her voice was close to Svetlana's ear.

"It is done, _Da'hara_. Sit up, so that you might see yourself."

Hardly able to believe that the thing was over with, Svetlana eased herself up off of the platform. Her body ached dimly from having to repose in such a way for so long but it paled in comparison to the pain of her face. As she sat there, easing her fingernails one at a time from her palms, the Keeper opened a small clay pot and dipped her fingers inside. She very tenderly smeared a clear substance over the newly applied Vallaslin; something to aid with the healing process, Svetlana supposed. She then took up the small mirror, allowing it to rest, glass down against her lap for the moment.

"Are you ready?"

Svetlana nodded, her mouth dry from a great deal more than having not taken any water during the two hours she had been lying there. Deshanna chuckled to see her looking so nervous, passing over the mirror.

"Try not to look so worried. If an old woman is permitted to praise herself, I believe that it turned out very well."

In the mirror, a sleepy looking, vaguely familiar face stared back at her. The woman's skin was glowing; rubbed red raw in places from the harsh burnishing it had earlier received and yellow in most others, from where the heated cloth had stained it. Her black hair was pinned back messily from her forehead, sticking out in such a way so as to resemble how she might otherwise appear if she had been tugged backwards through a bush. Her lips looked all the more rosy from being gnawed upon whilst she had been riding those awful waves of pain.

She wore the brilliant markings of Mythal; twin branches, each of an exquisite shade of purple such as that of a ripe plum. They were born from beneath her eyes, the point directed towards her nose, before breaking off into twin branches; each of which fanned out like transient stems on a steadily climbing vine. They hiked the hillocks formed by her cheekbones, seemed to strengthen them, enunciate them. Transgressed further still before seeming to disappear into the hair that bordered her temples, as though a clearly trodden path had wended to nothingness in the tangles of an uncharted woodland.

Deshanna had designed the markings in such a way that they had taken attention and weight from the bottom of Svetlana's face; just as she said. It drew focus to her cheekbones, her temples and her eyes; pulling everything up tightly at the corners. Making her appearance seem the more exotic, mature and somehow, Svetlana thought, disbelieving, attractive.

She had to put the mirror down and tilt her head back, lest her tears well out and fall down over the still stinging markings. Doing so did not help, as they fell instead over the wider stems that wended out across her temples but the pain was, ironically, the least of her concerns now. She could never have believed she could look so _beautiful_. Such a thing always seemed just out of her reach. Her hair, her skin, her eyes... Nothing stood out. Black hair, bronze skin, brown eyes. Dull.  But this... _this_. This was now as much a part of her as any of those things. It would flash out into the world as bright and as proud as those butterflies wings had been when it had fluttered from her nose and into the water below it. Deshanna reached out to her, momentarily obscured her vision by placing the cage of her fingers over Svetlana's face; her thumb and pinkie finger wading into the stream of tears that had formed to each side of her temple.

_"Ar lasa mala Mythal'enaste, da'len._ " She said and Svetlana could not imagine any words ever spoken to her could mean so much to her as these did.

**~X~**

Of course Cillian was delighted for how the markings had turned out. Even if he had not of liked them, he would have pretended to have done so, if only to preserve his esteemed standing as First to the Keeper. Svetlana could tell however, from the signature little crease below his left eye, that he was genuinely burbling with pride to see his baby sister come of age.

This reaction paled however to Dhavaro, who, Svetlana was shocked to find, had been waiting outside the Keeper's lean to for most of the morning. She could not remember having before seen him at such an early hour, being the one most accustomed to rousting him out of his own half tumbled down abode and dragging his somnolent arse to the hunt by his hungover earlobes.

And yet there he was, looking anxious, exhausted and as seedy as one might have expected, but sitting up under his own steam and with nary a puddle of vomit in sight. He was smoking of course, though not through a pipe such as others of the clan were prone to doing. He rolled a mixture of ground _elfroot_ and _shemlen_ made tobacco into a piece of paper to form what he would call, appropriately, a rollie. He would slick the edges together with his tongue, stick it between his lips and light the tip with a match. He deplored the time and effort required to maintain a pipe; preferring to just dispense with the remaining tip of one of his 'rollies' then to pack and clean and wash and all that. His attention span these days just couldn't seem to abide such a thing.

He staggered to his feet when he saw Svetlana, taking one last, deep drag from the rollie he was smoking before dropping it to the ground and stamping the embers out with the heel of his wrapped foot. (Assan's nose wrinkled disapprovingly but she managed to say nothing of it). Dhavaro staggered over, asked how it went and then, by pinching his already narrow eyes close together, was able to discern the markings himself. Svetlana wasn't certain who was more surprised by his attention and seeming respect in this moment; her or Assan. Dhavaro stood for quite some time, gave a small nod as though he had discerned something appropriate and then put his hand to the back of Svetlana's neck, pulling her in close so that their left eyes pressed together. A greeting among the Dalish, when recognizing one of their own and also a sign of respect and affection.

"Well done." He said simply, turning then with a shudder that seemed to buck his shoulders up about as high as his ears and bawling hysterically into the rising sun. Most everyone was up and about by now, but they still looked to him in annoyance as he made his emotional, off balance trek back off to only the gods knew where. In spite of whatever manner of figure he cut, Svetlana felt still a warm rush of pride and appreciation for her brother. Getting up at all was difficult for him, let alone at a time of the morning he was acquainted with only by virtue of the fact it was the time he most usually went to bed. This was a huge deal, so far as he was concerned. The most thoughtful and meaningful gesture he could have offered.

And what of Loughlin? Well, expecting Loughlin to say anything soft and encouraging about the _Vallaslin_ was like expecting a dog not to bite you when reaching your hand into its food bowl. When returning to the family lean to, he was awake and had gone to some effort in gathering breakfast for those of his family that weren't present. He paused with a dramatic sigh, as though being interrupted in the midst of conducting some intensive surgery and took to walking about Svetlana as though he were an animal searching for just the right area from which to take a nip. He knelt down, for he was taller than her, to get a good look at her face and then remarked, to her surprise, "Well, at least its pretty."

As for Assan, she had shelved what minor disappointment she had for Svetlana being awarded the menial markings of Mythal. It seemed that whatever foolish mistakes Svetlana had made in the past, she had been forgiven for how she had conducted herself during the application of the _Vallaslin_. She supposed she had never seen Assan look so proud and she did in fact dote on her with something that might have resembled sibling affection. She showed remarkable kindness in guiding Svetlana back to her bedroll and advising her to rest, for the morning had been long. She then talked her through the process that was required in caring for the newly applied _Vallaslin_ and took it upon herself to apply the first layer of salve.

Such was Svetlana's new routine for the following three days. The healing spells that Cillian would apply and the regular application of the salve were enough to bring the swelling down in that time, but it was still dreadfully boring after the first day had come to a close. There was method to such things, of course. After receiving their _Vallaslin_ , a young elf is re-introduced to their clan in a special ceremony that honours their entry into adulthood. Clans that might be neighbouring the Lavellan's at the time of the ritual, would be invited to participate in the event; which was really just a means to natter, expand social networks and maybe, if all went well, for the single elves of the clan to acquire suitors. The Lavellan's were in fact, one of the larger clans to be found among the Dalish of the Free marches, which most of the youths put down to the fact that they were also considered to be, mainly by writ of how they lived, to be the most attractive. The Lavellan clan mainly travelled to where it was warm and generations of this migratory routine had resulted in their skin being naturally bronzed and tanned. They were further known for having high cheekbones, beautifully shaped mouths and piercing eyes. Svetlana had never really paid attention to such things before but supposed she might actually learn something now that she too had come of age.

Suffice to say, the Keeper and the other Hahren of the clan wanted Svetlana looking just about as attractive as she might be expected to look. Which meant that time was needed for her face to heal and for the swelling and staining to recede. It also allowed time in which messages could be passed among the neighbouring clans. Svetlana heard excited talk between her sister and one of the other women that there had been a total of three clans within running distance to the Lavellan's; which was unheard of outside of the _Arlathvhen_. Everyone was naturally very excited about this convergence of so many potentially single and fertile elves and were more than pleased with Svetlana for her providing the perfect excuse to hop to their good foot and do the bad thing. Svetlana herself was not predisposed to such matters and got to wondering whether she might even meet the person to whom she might impart the remainder of her life. Or at least, the better part of a few good, sweat soaked evenings.

On the eve of her debut, Svetlana was summarily routed from her bed and marched by her sister over to the lean-to of the Hearth-mistress Gerurbra; a _hahren_ whom task it was to help prepare the newly instated adult _Da'len_ for their debut. Gerurbra was, by most estimates, about as old as the hills and yet went about in a carefree, energetic manner that defied her age. She took Svetlana by the arms, but about wrenched her off of her feet as she moved her to a section of her lean-to in which she had cordoned off and set lanterns to each of the four walls. The debut was to happen of a night time and Gerurbra liked to recreate the conditions so as to best allow for the _Da'len_ to shine and stand out.

She took her time, walking about Svetlana as though she were a particularly interesting tree, hrmming and humming as she went. Svetlana for her part tried to remain absolutely still. She quietly thanked the Gods for alleviating the last of that dreadful yellow stain from her face and for having brought the swelling down just in time for her debut. Her face had been ever so puffy and embarrassing the last couple of days. Though at least it had been only her cheeks. Poor Dhavaro, with his marks of _June_ , looked as though he had fallen face first into a bee hive for at least a week following his _Vallaslin_.

"Not as striking as her mother, sadly but a sweet face, nonetheless." Was Gerurbra's first assessment. Svetlana might have been hurt by such observations, but it was hardly the first time she had heard such a thing. She didn't move a jot as Gerurbra untied the cord from up about her neck and loosened the thick fabric wrap from around her waist. She tugged the dress down, invited Svetlana to step out of it and then pushed the garment off to the side. Svetlana stood there, clad in only her underclothes and kept her arms poised at her sides, just as her sister had shown her. A dress had already been prepared in advance of the debut and all Gerurbra did now was introduce a cool, moisturizing agent to Svetlana's skin; a component of which seemed to outline all the lines of her muscles and give them a subtle gleam.

"Beautiful body, though. Her muscles are strong. Nice long lean legs. The slit in the side of the dress will emphasise that, but I will also have her wear a heel to ankle wrap; which will draw attention to the curves." As an afterthought to this, Gerurbra took a thick bristle brush to another pot she had whisked from somewhere and made a few downward stripes to the side of Svetlana's thigh; just an inch or two short of her hip. It left the tanned flesh with a very slight golden sparkle. "To get the boys eyes wandering." She said, smiling at Svetlana's curious expression and then giving her a slap on the arse as some sort of encouragement.

It wasn't long before Svetlana started feeling like she was about to be thrown to the metaphorical wolves. It was clear that she was being prettied up, not only on account of it being her debut, but to sexualize her to a degree; so that she might attract a partner. Becoming an adult was not just about entering into a whole new realm of adult responsibilities, it seemed. But to find a suitable person, whose sexual organs were in direct diametric opposition to her own, open wide the doors of her womb and fill it with the ingredients required to repopulate the Dalish community.

Svetlana supposed she didn't mind the attention, in spite of its obvious agenda. It was simply that some of the things were so obvious that it was borderline smarmy. The underpants that she was required to wear, hiked up the crack of her backside so that they didn't inhibit the big long slit in the side of her dress. Not that her underwear often did get in the way of her usual run of the line dresses but Gerurbra assured her that the barely there underclothes would further draw 'emphasis' (her favourite word, it seemed) to the curve of her arse. Assan for her part, went along with this with but a commiserating nod of her head; apparently quite agreeable to her little sister being whored off now that she was officially an adult.

Gerurbra wrapped Svetlana in a plain slip and got her to kneel in the centre of the room whilst she applied some makeup to her face. Before starting, she put her fingertips to Svetlana's cheekbones, turned her face from side to side and then sighed as though she had never seen anything so lovely in her life.

"Such a sweet face." She said, moving her hands now to Svetlana's jaw and lifting it. She smiled. "Strong jawline, a small chin... The lips are your fathers and the bone structure is very much like your mothers..." She turned to Assan, raised her brow. "The eyes though... I don't recall Ellana or Kelesia having eyes such as this."

Assan nodded slightly, her lip twisting at the corner as it so often did when she felt agrieved by something. "According to the Keeper, Svetlana's eyes are a throwback to our Grandfather on mother's side of the family."

Though Assan plainly thought this to have been an unfortunate inheritance, Gerurbra on the other hand seemed to think otherwise, for she laughed and clapped her hands together with near irrepressible glee. " _Ha_ , of course now! That makes sense. The eyes are _Larasal's._ What a stroke of luck!"

"Luck, Hahren?" Assan asked, leaning forward at the waist in a clear gesture of being unconvinced on the matter.

Gerurbra placed her thumbs to each corner of Svetlana's eyes; who did her best to pretend as though she didn't at all mind being handled like a doll.

"Well, of course, child! Svetlana is _Qherera'hethet!_ " And because they both appeared as confused as the next, elaborated: "It means that her eyes are ideal, so far as our people are concerned. The larger the eyes, the longer the lashes, the more startling the colour, the younger and more appealing the elf appears to be. All of which are inherent signs of high fertility. Whatever a man thinks consciously, he will look at anyone who is _Qherera'hethet_ and deep within, at his base animal level, he will find her beautiful and want to make her pregnant."

"Oh, yay." Svetlana grumbled, finding nothing at all complimentary in being quintessentially labelled a walking, talking, baby dispensory. Assan couldn't have looked more the pleased however, because anything that made her job of trying to sell her otherwise plain as dirt sister, had to be a good thing.

It seemed rather a crock, so far as Svetlana was concerned. She had after all lived with these eyes for over seventeen years now and failed to recall a time in which she was forced to persistently beat off swarms of randy males with a stick. Not that she would have beaten them so much as just stretched out on the ground with arms and legs akimbo and ordered them to line up in an orderly fashion but the point still stood.

Gerurbra naturally went to great efforts then to make Svetlana's already enormous eyes pop even more than they already did. Though her lashes were naturally dark, Gerurbra painted them; so that the strands seemed to stick out like the curled legs of a spider. Svetlana could actually feel the weight in them now and rather disliked the way that they seemed to scratch and pin to each other. Her eyes were then outlined in charcoal and a dusky shadow was applied to the lids; though not so dark that they caused the lashes to fade off into them. To her annoyance, Gerurbra used only a very subtle, light rose colour on her lips; not wanting to take attention away from Svetlana's big old _give-me-babies_ eyes (as she would now and forever call them). Her hair was twisted to the far left as far as her short, ruffled locks could go and Gerurbra used any number of tricks, pins and waxes to try and force it down into a short braid ; the ends of which curled up under her left ear. Little strands persistently stuck out every which way, and Gerurbra just about drove herself to hysterics in her efforts to stick them down. Satisfied, after some half hour of wrestling with them, she placed some light blush to each of Svetlana's checks, dabbed some of that highlighting cream to each of her _Vallaslin_ and then invited her to stand.

One of the craftsmen was invited to paint a series of white and purple markings along the length of her arms; starting at the shoulder and terminating over the backs of her hands. The paint was produced with the aid of a dye that would dry staunchly and would not run even when introduced to sweat or a subtle splash of water. It would take some concentrated scrubbing to remove, which, from Svetlana's earlier experience with her _Vallaslin_ , she could only look forward to with great anticipation.

The colour of Svetlana's dress had been chosen for her by the Keeper and Gerurbra. It was a dark red, something they felt went extremely well with Svetlana's black hair and tanned complexion. She supposed it a lovely colour and the dress that had been crafted for her was extraordinarily beautiful, but she still would have liked to have had a part in dressing herself. Maybe one of these days very soon.

Assan and Gerurbra helped her slip into the dress. Much as her standard run of the mill attire, the dress was designed to be tied about the neck but did so with a black collar, made of dyed bear leather. Gold clasps held it together at the back. The front of the dress had a slit, which might have shown her cleavage (if she had been in possession of any) and came in tight along the ribcage, so that the side of her breasts could just be glanced. Though she wasn't prudish, Svetlana felt this to be more risque than being completely naked; especially when taking the thigh high slits in the side into consideration. You could just about see where the anticipated baby was intended to pop from.

Quite honestly; she felt ridiculous. On any other more feminine elf such an attire would have been mouth-watering. She on the other hand, felt an absolute fraud. Svetlana had a very fleeting understanding of grace and decorum. Though gentle natured and fair minded, she had little idea as to how to compose herself in such a way as to impress the likes of other people. She'd never really had to try before and was dreading the very thought of being the centre of attention. It seemed an awful lot of pressure, really.

"Assan, I look an absolute slatten." She observed, just out of earshot of Gerurbra, who had gone to fetch some perfume or some such thing. Assan, who had been kneeling to tuck the last of her leg wrap into itself, glanced up at her in annoyance.

"Nonsense. You look lovely." She said dismissively, standing up and adjusting the twin strips of fabric that barely contained what little Svetlana had in the way of breasts. "I, for one, am astonished that Gerurbra managed to take your awful hair and make something of it. You actually look like a woman now." And then, with such a genuine smile that Svetlana wondered whether she might still be asleep and dreaming it: "And such a beautiful woman at that. Mother and Father would be so proud."

It was always disarming whenever Assan said something kind and now was no exception. It made Svetlana feel childish for the sometimes mean thoughts she entertained about her sister. Never mind being reminded about their parents. A milestone was something that you dearly wished to have the ones you loved celebrate with you. These were the times that were hardest still for all of them.

Svetlana lowered her gaze, pinching her lip between her teeth as a minor rebuke against the surge of sadness that welled up inside of her. Assan saw it for what it was, and, in another act that truly surprised Svetlana, took her sister into her arms. If she had been a more sentimental sort, she might have expressed that she too was proud of Svetlana, but this was just one concession too many and with a sharp intake of breath, she stepped back. Collected herself.

"Now. You shall be meeting a good deal of people tonight, _da'len_. Needless to say that with the convergence of five clans, things will be extremely busy."

"No surprises there." Svetlana said with a small laugh. She was distracted; wanting to get a look at herself in the mirror, but subject yet to the last minute tucks and twists and whatnot that her sister and Gerurbra subjected her to.

"Be mindful of your tone at all times. Ask questions. Show interest." Assan held up a cautionary finger, waited for Svetlana's gaze to drift back over from the far wall and focus on it. "But do not forget: this is _your_ night. Eyes will be on you. So for the creators sake, do your best to be enchanting, won't you?"

Svetlana gave her standard, crooked grin. "Enchanting's my middle name, sister."

Assan sighed, looking prematurely exhausted as she cast her eyes to the gallows of the lean to. "I suppose someone might find your sense of humour charming. One can only hope. Now." She clapped her hands together, turning and picking up a large circular mirror from where it had been resting, glass down on a cabinet nearby. "Are you ready to see yourself?"

"Only if Gerurbra has a bib to put over this dress so I don't drool all over it." Svetlana joked, which only made Assan look all the more tired. Nevertheless, she did her part and held up the mirror so that Svetlana could see herself properly for the first time.

Well, if she had thought herself floored by how the _Vallaslin_ had made her appear, than this thrust her soundly through the earth and well into the bowels of Thedas. It took her a moment to truly believe that the face staring back at her was actually her own.

Her cheekbones, already enunciated by the markings of Mythal seemed to glisten and sparkle; bringing further light to her eyes. Eyes of which usually appeared so glib and childlike now possessed an edge of seductive, smoky knowing. Her lashes had never looked so long and though she felt frustrated by the feel of them, thought the effect astonishingly beautiful.

The dress had been designed in such a way as to pay tribute to what physical assets she had. Namely, her round ass and long, slender legs. Though she hadn't been certain in regards to the colour, she felt that the red complimented her complexion well. It was certainly a far more decadent colour than she had ever had cause to wear at any point of her life. She supposed this was how the _shemlen_ Divine must have felt when perched upon her Sunburst throne. It was a colour that demanded attention; which spoke of importance, ferocity, dominion, passion and anger, all in the one fey glimpse alone. Qualities of which the even tempered Svetlana had little cause to dabble in her very modest life.

She let her head drop back a little; chuckling in mirth at her own reaction and gingerly placed her fingers beneath her eyes. She didn't want her tears to ruin the makeup that Gerurbra had so meticulously crafted so as to make her appear more the beautiful than she had ever been in her life. Assan smiled indulgently, taking a cloth from inside of her sleeve and using its pinched tip to carefully dab the tears from the lower lids of Svetlana's eyes.

"Have a care, _da'len_. You will put to ruin all the careful work Gerurbra has done." She used her thumbs to dab away some of the tears that escaped, and wiped them on the hem of her robe. Smiling still, she placed her hands to Svetlana's upper arms, being careful to avoid placing her hands on the mostly dried paint. " _Sulahn'nehn_ , _lethallan_. The world awaits you."

**~X~**

 "Looks like big sister got you well tarted up, _Da'hara._ "

Svetlana smiled, shifting over a little so that Dhavaro could plonk down beside her. She had retired to the fireside after a long evening spent on her feet, being introduced to all the deemed to be 'important' persons from the visiting clans. She had met all the Keepers, their apprentices, the hunters, artisans and of course anyone that was male and single and looked to be the slightest bit interested in speaking with her for longer than a minute.

After about an hour or two of this, Svetlana was so exhausted it was all she could do not to wither into herself as Cillian and Assan yanked her about from pillar to post. She had been the recepient of a few sharp slaps to the back from her sister; reminding her not to 'slouch' when she walked and to stop marching about with her knees apart as though she were 'riding a horse'.

It was a relief as such to finally be released from her secular responsibilities and she had been quick to skirt away to the fireside; enjoying just a few, uninterrupted moments of quiet. Dhavaro's company was of no concern to her; as she did not need to put up any manner of pretence when it came to him.

"Ya gone and pulled anyone yet?" He asked, flashing a crooked smile which still struck her as being despairingly handsome, even when suspended beneath the slightly dazed voids of his eyes. Though Svetlana rarely valued appearance as an indicataor of someone's true worth, she did have to agree with some of the naysayers in the clan when it came to her brother. It was a pity, for with Dhavaro's signature high cheekbones, strong jaw and deep set, soulful eyes, he might very well have been the great beauty of their immediate little family group. But the _Terror of the Woods_ had stolen much of that away from him.

His hair, once short, styled and impeccably groomed now gave way to long, unruly hanks of dread; shaved in at the sides in what Svetlana suspected was a random, drunken impulse. His skin, though naturally tanned like the rest of the Lavellan's, was sallow, doughy and sunken in places. His cheeks often wore a wreathe of brokered veins; peaking blue beneath the skin and seemingly wanting to cry out for help as a poisonous cocktail of smoke and booze and drugs pounded through the providence of them. His teeth, once white and straight and immaculate, had found stains in places; ones that could never be lifted short of a spell. And Cillian had certainly gone to the effort of doing so, being the forerunner of the 'never giving up on an otherwise hopeless case' clause.

Svetlana had born personal witness to it; Davaro barely perched up, swaying about and exhuding a noxious scent of curdled vomit, alcohol and not near enough regret to satisfy anyone. Cillian working magic over his face, trying to repair whatever damage he continually saw fit to do to himself. Wearing still that ever present and genuine look of patience he had done when the two of them had marched up to him at the Keeper's house with the injured water fowl. Svetlana suspected that much like her, Cillian refused to forget the sweet hearted and earnest child that would sooner allow himself to be befouled by some tick ridden creature, than to permit it to suffer.

"Not from a collective lack of trying." Svetlana stated, in response to Dhavaro's query. She sighed, reaching out to unwind a couple of small twigs from one of his dreads. "Got chatting to one nice bloke. Turns out he's the First to the Keeper of the _Kacoba_ Clan. And married."

Dhavaro made an 'oh' shape with his mouth.

"Naturally Assan thought that was a waste of time and so swiftly extradited me from that situation. Dragged me about from one boring as mud dud to the next. Everyone talking about who made the best shot with which arrow, who brought down the bigger game, blah-blah-blah. At least the Keeper's and the apprentices have something interesting to talk about. But Assan would rather I be bored and conversing with those who might play a part in impregnating me one day." Svetlana finally managed to extricate the twigs from Dhavaro's hair and she flicked them off into the fire with an irritated grunt. "I thought it would be fun being the centre of attention, but all I feel like is a piece of meat that's just been pulled off of the campfire."

"Such is the way of these things, baby girl. With those big old eyes and that purdy mouth-" Dhavaro leaned over, pushing his fingers and thumb into each of Svetlana's cheeks; forcing her mouth into an awkward pucker.  "- ain't no wonder all these boys are sniffin' around like a pack of dogs."

It was quite true that the collective sum of young males had been paying an inordinate amount of attention to Svetlana since the Keeper had announced her to the gathering. She sincerely doubted that this was as a result of her modest looks and 'winning' personality, however. A _da'len_ on the day of their Coming of Age, was like a prize everyone wished to compete for. Though Svetlana was no longer a virgin (or _was_ depending on whether it was her sister you were asking) her being presented to the clans as an adult, acted more as some manner of universal allowance to now approach her as such. She had seen similar behaviour amongst wild animals; all the males swarming about, sniffing the air and boxing each others ears for the chance to mate with the on-heat female. She knew she must be something of a disappointment; having little interest in flirting it up or stroking the egos of a group of men to whom she wouldn't wish to spend five minutes in the company of, let alone share the same bedroll.

"Wouldn't mind so much if a one of them had something interesting to say. More'n enough handsome faces to shake a stick at but -" Svetlana sighed, went to rake her hand back through her hair and swore as she inadvertently yanked some strands painfully from her braid. "- I don't know. Suppose I'm just too picky."

Dhavaro gave her a long look, which looked surprisingly serious in spite of the fact that he was swaying slightly as though caught in the crosshairs of a combative breeze. "If a rotten excuse for a brother can impart one piece of advice to his little sister, _Da'hara?_ "

Svetlana tilted her head towards him; giving an admonishing stare in return. "You're not a rotten excuse for a brother."

"Well, I'm a far from _fresh_ excuse for a brother." They both chuckled at this, though the concession did make Svetlana feel a little guilty. "Listen, you ain't go nothin' to worry about, uh?"

"I don't?" Svetlana stated, making a show of humouring her brother, whom she was well aware could be rather biased, so far as she was concerned. He shook his head, smirking.

"No, ma'am. Won't happen overnight, but I promise; you gonna meet someone." He tapped a grubby fingertip to his temple. "I can see it, I can see it."

"Oh, really. Well tell me more then." She said, swivelling about to face him and crossing her legs as though she were a child at storytime. "Tell me about this mystery man who's supposed to sweep me off my feet."

"Well, all right, since you insist. But first!" Dhavaro whipped the strap of of his carry bag from around his chest with great flourish; bringing it over to rest in his lap. "A gift to celebrate your comin' of age. Figure ain't no one better to welcome you to the realm of adulthood with a good stiff drink than your big brother, uh?"

"Seems appropriate." Svetlana agreed, somewhat bitter that this potential numbing agent hadn't been offered three hundred borish conversations ago. "But I hate to tell you this Dhavaro; I _have_ tried alcohol before now."

"Course you have. Whose little sister do you suppose you are?" He reached into the bag as she laughed, rustling about in the assorted mess of ground elfroot, tobacco bags, strange glass pipes and whatnot and produced from somewhere amidst the discombobulation, a dark, corked bottle with a rather fancy looking gold label. He spilt a number of white filters onto the ground in the process and took a moment to scoop them back into the bag before holding the bottle back out for Svetlana's inspection. "But this, _this_! _This_ I'm bettin' you never tried, uh? Had to save up good and proper and pull what few strings I had to get a hold of this bad boy. _Shemlen_ wine, from that fancy old place they call Rivain. Got bubbles in it and all."

Svetlana took the bottle, more touched by the look of childish anticipation on Dhavaro's usually pinched features than by the gift itself. Astonishing as it was.

"Oh, wow. Yes, that's what they call, um..." She snapped her fingers, trying to think back to some of the books she had read about human society. "... _Effervescent_ , isn't it?"

"Nothin' surer." Dhavaro confirmed, setting the bottle between his thighs and proceeding to work on the cork. Svetlana whistled from between her front teeth, leaning forward slightly so as to gaze into the interior of the bottle.

"And I know you're taking this seriously too because the corks still in the neck of the bottle and its full near all the way to the top."

"Lucky I like ya, _Da'hara_. Wouldn't have shown restraint for anyone else." He paused a moment, considering. "Eh... maybe the squirt when he gets old enough. 'Less he pisses me off good and proper before then. Probably won't be... sober enough to remember it though." He placed both thumbs now beneath the cork and with one good solid push, freed it from the opening of the bottle with a cacophonous pop. The cork flew up into the air, sailed over the fire and disappeared into the darkness beyond. The sound was fairly much drowned out by the sound of the instruments playing nearby but it was excitement enough to bring Svetlana to bouncing on her arse and clapping like an overexcited child.

"Well, ain't that a treat!" Dhavaro laughed, ducking his head to slurp at some of the foam which had erupted from the top of the bottle. Svetlana, expecting nothing less, gave a cheerful chuckle; still staring off towards where the cork had disappeared.

"Suppose the _shemlen_ have to get something right, don't they?"

"Well, they certainly know how to drink. Here." Dhavaro had whipped two wooden chalices from within his bag, as though summoned from some unforeseen void. Svetlana took each by the stems, holding them steady as her brother poured a generous helping of the bubbly libation into each. He set the wine bottle nearby, took his cup from Svetlana and held it out to her as a clear invitation of a toast. "To you, lil' sis. Happy coming of age."

Svetlana smiled, tapping the side of her chalice to Dhavaro's. "Cheers to you, big brother."

They swigged from their cups, Svetlana's face just about falling from her skull when the unfamiliar taste hit her tongue. It was dry, such as some of the spirits that the clan brewed, but sweeter still and marked by those joyful little pops and fizzes that bubbled across her tongue. She could feel a waft of it flow down through her sinuses, somehow not so unpleasant as it was with some of the grain alcohol she had tried in the past. She took another sip, finding it ever just as lovely as the first.

"Oh my goodness. That stuff is amazing!" She trilled, thinking that if anything could have improved it, a handful of berries might just have done the trick. Dhavaro held a finger up to his lips reproachfully.

"Not too loud! We'll have to share it."

Svetlana chuckled, peering into the depths of her cup and swilling the nectar coloured liquid around. "You've got to wonder how they manage it, don't you? I mean, I know old Fourinha managed to make fermented cider that had a sort of bubble in it but this. ...wow, this is something else." She sipped again; more glugged really and Dhavaro offered something of a hypocritical little cluck of his tongue.

"Careful, uh? Don't let it go to your head, or Assan'll have me square by the short and curlies." He said, taking another decent old lug from the cup himself.

" _Anyway_. You were gonna tell me about my future man." Svetlana reminded him, reaching over to glance her palm to the side of his thigh. "Don't keep a girl in suspense now."

"A'right, a'right. Give us your hand then." Dhavaro instructed, taking her left hand in his and examining it for a moment. They were both giggling, amused by the little game that he was playing and no doubt a little heady from the _Effervescent_. After staring at her palm for some time, most likely having not taken a jot of it in, Dhavaro proclaimed, with dramatic intent: "Well... he's going to be... uh... tall..."

Svetlana could barely supress the eyeroll that accompanied this expected statement. "Surprises all. Probably not a dwarf then. And he'll be dark as well, I suppose."

Dhavaro dithered on this; tilting his head from side to side and pursing his lips together. "Eh... maybe. Maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell. His hair might be fair and he might be dark so far as his personality is concerned. Which is it that you are hoping for Svetlana?"

"I have no preference so far as those things are concerned." Svetlana replied truthfully. Though it was quite true that she found a tall man to be attractive, it was facets of a strong, decisive personality that she considered most appealing when dealing with _any_ individual. Be it of a romantic nature or otherwise. "So long as I can have a conversation with him and not get to dosing off, I will be happy."

Dhavaro laughed, plainly amused by something which had crossed his mind. "I see. So, you would be content to date a swamp goblin, so long as he had something interesting to say."

"...Maybe." Svetlana replied with a serious face. It sent them both to laughing, perhaps because the image of Svetlana shacked up with an intellectually sound swamp goblin, who enjoyed reading the ancient philosophies of Thedas in his spare time, would have been little surprise to anyone. "If he was a giving lover and a decent cook."

"One doesn't look at the sky when they are poking the fire, as Daddy used to say." Dhavaro chuckled, slurping again from his cup and then freeing his index finger from its side, so as to trace a line down along Svetlana's palm. "Okay... so far, your future man is a tall, maybe dark, swamp goblin, who is a great conversationalist, enjoys intellectual pursuits, can cook a decent feed and is skilled in the oft unappreciated art of cunnilingus."

"Who the fuck doesn't appreciate the art of cunnilingus?!" Svetlana snorted, both her and Dhavaro once again descending into laughter. "I mean, what woman in her right mind has ever just sat on up and said, 'Oh, no thankyou darling, not tonight. To be honest, I'm rather not a fan of being the recipient of exquisite physical pleasure. I'd much rather just help _you_ get off."

"And since when would _you_ ever know of such things, my innocent, _untouched_ baby sister?" Dhavaro asked, his eyes twinkling in such a way that it was clear he knew her to be no such thing as 'untouched'. "You'd best not let Assan hear such talk. Old girl will have a heart attack, she thinks some blokes mouths been anywhere near your purple berry."

"Oh, _stop_." Svetlana hissed, unwinding her leg and kicking Dhavaro in the shin. "Finish telling me my fortune already, won't you? I need to know more about my Swamp goblin if I'm gonna be able to pick him out of a crowd."

"Okay, ya want to boil it all down to brass tacks?" He took her hand in his own, gave it a squeeze and stared deep into her eyes, with his own soulful gaze. It was a little offputting, to see him looking so serious. "The man you're supposed to be with will think you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his life. He'll find it hard not to look at you. He'll go ahead and sneak glances every time he thinks you're not about to catch him. Not only will you enjoy talking with him, but he will live for the moments that he can talk to _you_. You'll challenge one another, in a way that neither of you have ever been challenged before. And you'll never be able to let go; no matter how much distance is dropped between the two of you."

Svetlana stared, a little awed by the sincere bend their conversation had just taken and blinked at her brother as he released her hand and turned, staring off into the fire as he sipped from his cup again. He stared into the flames with what she took to be an expression of true bitterness.

"I was in love once, Svetlana." He said and the admission surprised her, because though she knew that her brother had had women, she had never known him to have felt anything special for them. "You wouldn't have known, of course." His eyes brokered a distance far beyond the reach of anything Svetlana could ever hope to broach. "She was... kind and funny and... decent. She saw the best in most everyone. Always tried to find a solution where no one ever got hurt." He chuckled indulgently to himself, swayed his glass by the lip. "I adored her."

"I had no idea." Svetlana said, leaning forward so as to try and get a look up into her brothers face. His sad expression gave little away, other than that which he was currently feeling. "Who was she? Someone here still? In the clan?"

He turned on her and his sadness gave form to a smile of such consternation it made her heart ache to imagine just what he might have been feeling inside. "Sorry, sis but there are some things that a man needs to keep to himself. Holding it close, it... well, it keeps it alive just that little while longer. I hope you understand."

She nodded, not because she understood necessarily but because she respected his silence. His right to keep this private thing as just his, and his alone. It looked as though he might have gone and said something more, but was distracted by the passing of Vahiris, who flashed the both of them a slightly censorious look before continuing to speak with a fellow hunter who walked at his side. Dhavaro's brow lifted to form wrinkles across the plains of his forehead, taking Svetlana's annoyed frown for precisely what it was.

"I have to hunt with Vahiris. Knowing that I'm your brother, you would think he would learn not to run his mouth." Dhavaro made a fist, smirking as he made a slow gesture with it against his chin; emulating a strike. "Got himself a good old shiner from me, when I caught him mouthin' about stuff he should have known to keep private."

"Ah, shit." Svetlana cursed, slugging back from her wine and then dropping her head in embarrassment. She should have known such a thing would happen; given that Dhavaro and Vahiris were both allocated to the same hunting party. "How bad was it?"

"Wasn't bad, really. But it's private stuff, uh? Man ain't got no place talking about that sort of thing outside of the bedroll." He reached over to cluck her chin. "Plus... you're my sister. I ain't gonna stand for no one talkin' shit about you."

Svetlana put her chalice to her lips and drew once more on the vivacious liquid within. The alcohol was helping; but she still felt an unconscious flush rise to her cheeks to hear that her one and only lover had been spouting off at the tap about the intimate moments they had spent together. She hadn't expected much less, to be honest, but the idea that such talk had been loud enough for her more often than not 'distracted' brother to take notice of... To say it was 'disconcerting' would have been an understatement.

"You won't tell Assan?" She asked softly, to which Dhavaro offered up a dog like bark of amusement.

"Baby-girl, I lost my virginity when I was _fifteen_. Assan might be livin' in the old ages still, but I could give less of a shit so long as what you done was consensual and you had fun doing it." He started to put together a rollie from out of his bag; flecks of dried elfroot and mixed tobacco drifting down from between his dolefully rotating fingers. "Think ya could have done better than that snot-nosed little shit but, hey, I'm clearly the last person to be casting aspersions on anyone's choices." He gestured towards her with the rollie. "Do you want one?"

"No, thankyou Dhavaro. I might steal a puff of yours if I'm feeling a scoch rebellious." She watched, sipping from the last remaining dregs of her drink as Dhavaro lit his rollie and drew deep from the burning embers. His tired looking eyes came to rest on her and he stared for a moment or so, making her feel slightly out of sorts. And then he laughed. Soft, yet genuine.

"What's so funny?" She asked, feeling her right brow quirk as a perfect indication of her feelings on the matter. He waved a hand at her, placating any unforeseen offense she might have taken in his reaction.

"Nothing. Nothing, I..." He looked to her again, his lips stretching out to make room for his large teeth and then wrapped his arms tight about her in an exuberant hug. "Just... you. Here. All grown up. Seventeen years old. I'm just... I'm happy." He sat back, smirking still and gave her a rather rough pat to the cheek. "Happier than I can ever express. I love you so damn much, _Da'hara_. I just hope ya don't ever doubt it or forget it."

Svetlana was not unaccustomed to emotional outbursts from her brother. He was always on the drink, always impaired and impacted and far the more sensitive than any other sober person might be. Countless were the times that she had found herself yanked into any number of firm, unprecidented hugs and yanked about so that the soles of her feet barely skirted the ground and her ribcage felt to be cracking through beneath the loving compression of his arms. She was never the less touched for his admissions however, and now was not to be the first exception.

"Aww, of course I don't, Dhavaro." She murmured, putting her arms about his upper torso and squeezing hard enough to route the remainder of breath from his body. Love aside, turn about was fair play. "Mythal's frilly underthings, are you channeling Daddy this week, or what?"

Dhavaro huffed, eyes turning upward to the Heavens in a flagrant display of emotion which permitted a spattering of tears to fall free.  
"Ah, don't even get me started. Old man would have been right all up in this shit. He'd be bawling fit ta burst, hugging you til ya head popped right off ya neck..." He tilted his head thoughtfully, gesturing towards the fire with the hand that held the still smouldering rollie. "I remember, when I was just a wee lad, dancing with him by the fire at one of these coming of age malarkey's." He sighed softly, trailing off. Every line in his face suddenly seemed more the heavy for all the sadness that had grifted into them. "I miss 'em, ya know..."

"... what do you suppose ever happened to Mum?" Svetlana asked, not supposing she really wanted an answer to a question so potentially awful that the not knowing was somehow more comforting than the speculation. She took Dhavaro's rollie from his hand, glanced about for any sign of her sister and then drew quickly from the filter before passing it back.

Dhavaro shrugged, though there was nothing careless in the gesture. Rather, the act appeared to convey far too much weight. "Don't know. Taken by a bear, most likely. Don't wanna think about it. _Can't_ think about it. Can only pray it was quick." He scoffed, aware of the morbid absurdity in his own statement. "Quick as those things can be."

He drank. Svetlana mirrored him. Felt a warm, comforting fuzz encapsulate the borders of her brain and seep further still; like tiny tendrils of water, wending their way through the once dry cracks of a riverbed. Everywhere the magic liquor touched, the softer and more simple the conversation seemed.

"Know they're watchin' over us all, though." Dhavaro was saying, surprisingly so distracted by his thoughts that he failed to notice Svetlana topping up her own cup. "Course they would be. Be proud of you. And Assan and Cillian. Even that little loudmouth."

"They would be proud of you too, Dhavaro." Svetlana stated, slurping contentedly from the lip of her cup. "Don't think that they wouldn't."

He shrugged this off as though the very thought were uncomfortable. "Eh. Could be worse. Could be treatin' folks poor and scabbin' off you all and kicking Fennec whenever I got a mood on." As if in support of this, he took from his bag a small tin container, popped the lid with a few light wrenches and just about flipped a tablet from its depths in between his lips as easily as if it were drawn to its destination by magic. He gave it a good chomp between his teeth, using his index finger to then rub the paste it had formed into his gums. Svetlana sipped from he drink again; pretended not to take notice of what he had done. "Guess there are worse things to be than just a loser, uh?"

"You're not a loser."

"She's right." Loughlin avowed, wandering over with his expression of ever perpetual boredom shelved upon his features like so much heavy baggage. He dropped between them, swishing his arse from side to side as some encouragement for them to make room. "You're a drunk and a chuffer and a poor judgement so far as fashion and hair maintenance are concerned, but you're not a loser. Still worth more than most of these morons combined."

Dhavaro bust for laughing at this, ash flaking free from the tip of his rollie as his body rocked with mirth. "Mythal's tits kid, you make me laugh. Black city'll have a special room picked out for you, nothin' surer."

"So long as it's fashionably decorated and the linens are soft, I'm down." Loughlin plucked Svetlana's cup from her, taking a sip. His eyes widened. "Well my, my... yet another reason to depart this shit show and get on out to the _shemlen_ world. What is this?"

Svetlana snatched back her libation, narrowing her eyes unappreciatively at Loughlin. By this stage she was feeling especially light and breezy and wondered why she had waited so long to truly start enjoying her evening.

"This is about as much as you're getting, mister. At least 'til you come of age." To further illustrate her point (and to perhaps make him just that little more envious) she swayed the glass alluringly beneath his nose before bringing it back up to her mouth and taking another gulp. Dhavaro laughed heartily, clanking his cup to hers hard enough to slosh the liquid up dangerously close to the lip.

"That's right!" He declared, winking at Loughlin's annoyed expression and wresting an arm firm about his shoulder as he swilled back from his own cup. Their younger brother groaned, rolling his eyes back in their sockets.

"Oh, come _on_ , you two."

"Hey, I'm in the bad books with Assan already." Dhavaro said, his tone serious for a moment. He features crimped together to form an affront of genuine fear. "You really want her comin' along and catching you with that? She'll think I'm corrupting you for sure."

Loughlin's perpetually rolling eyes swung to the far left of his sockets, in order to grant Dhavaro a truly ironic look. "Dhavaro. Really? I think Assan knows, as well as you do, that the only one corrupting me, is _me_. I don't need any help in walking down that dark path."

"Apart from being supplied the means." Svetlana clarified, holding up the bottle of _Effervescent_ by the neck to further elucidate her point. Dhavaro, bizarrely on point for one habitually accustomed to wiping himself out on a regular basis, yanked the bottle back down; shielding it from the other members of the clan.

" _Da'hara_ , you field this one, would you?" He said, sloshing a bit more of the bubbly liquid into his glass as an afterthought to his earlier hiding of it. Some splashed out onto his fingers and he paused long enough to suck the clinging droplets free. "I want no part in leadin' the kid even more astray."

Svetlana dug her elbow into his ribcage, a teasing smile on her face. "I don't remember you or I being much older when we had ourselves our first sip. You got another cup in there? Just give him a small one. It's a special night. Can't hurt."

"A generous woman, through and through." Loughlin established, looking more the pleased as Dhavaro not so reluctantly relented; producing another cup from his bag of tricks and pouring his little brother a helping. He filled it only partway, however, something that was not lost on any of them, though seen as being more the responsible than they had ever known him to be. When it was done, they once more raised their cups to toast to Svetlana's success.

"To you, Da'hara." Loughlin said, managing to look somewhat genuinely happy for much of five minutes. "Though I'm not a fan of what the _Vallaslin_ stands for -"

"- a statement to which no one is surprised."

"- I'm just happy to see you... happy. Cheers."

They clanked their cups together and drank once more from the delicious contents. Cillian happened to be passing by at that time, walking with his wife and two young children in tow. With his usual warm smile he reached down and deftly yanked Loughlin's cup from his grasp.

"Don't let your big sister catch you with this." He teased, winking as he took a drink for himself. Loughlin scoffed, giving his elder sibling a rather highbrow expression. 

"Rude."

"Perks of being the eldest, _da'len_." Cillian glanced over at Svetlana as his children immediately launched themselves on top of her; receiving the expected cuddles and kisses in exchange. "You having a nice night, _Da'hara_?"

She looked to him with fear in her eyes; feeling anxiety strobe through the parts of her chest that weren't currently subject to the eager compression of her neice and nephew. "Please don't make me get up again, brother. My feet are so sore and my mind is so numb."

He laughed softly, reaching down to cluck his fingers to the side of her face in what she took to be a somewhat fatherly gesture.

"You have done what is required, it is up to you how you spend the remainder of your night, _da'len_."

Cillian's wife Junara smiled down at Svetlana with her eyes as round and as warm as any of the _halla_ that currently trotted about the happenings curiously. Her auburn hair, twisted up about the crown of her head in a series of complicated braids looked ever so feminine and her poise was as gentile and as ladylike as Svetlana was bawdy and awkward.

"You look prettier than ever tonight, Svetlana, my love." She said, leaning down to brush her left eye to Svetlana's overly made up one. She wondered if their lashes might become entangled in the process. "But you are always beautiful, so..."

"Thankyou, Junara. You're always too kind." Svetlana said, quite meaning it. Junara was one of those people who always seemed far too sweet to be true. She had been a good match for the likes of Cillian; who had a propensity to become too serious at times and required, in his own words on the day that they bonded, 'a soft place to land'. Svetlana thought them to be wonderful together and ever so adored the look her brother got in his eyes whenever he looked to his wife; a mixture of pride and barely concealed veneration. It was enough to give her hope that someday she might just trick someone into looking at her the same way.

"Well, no guesses as to whether or not this wine is of the _shemlen_." Cillian remarked, taking another sip from the cup (patently ignoring Loughlin's offended huff as he did so.) "How do they manage such a thing, I wonder? _Vhenan_ , take a sip of this, won't you?"

Loughlin flipped his hand up into the air, lip curled as evidence of his profound irritation. "Oh, sure. No never mind me just waiting to get my cup back after everyone's passed it around and slobbered in it."

"Count your blessings I don't confiscate it, young man." Cillian not quite scolded, passing the cup over to Junara who took as dainty a sip as one could ever imagine. "Surprising, no?"

Junara's eyes widened expectently, looking down into the cup as though expecting the tears of Mythal to be swirling within. "Bless my stars, well is that not something?"

"May I try some, mother?" Her son asked from where he still lay wrapped about Svetlana's middle like some overly affectionate snake. Junara immediately elevated the cup to above her head, as though it were not already out of her youngsters reach.

"No, never you mind, _da'len_. This is juice for the grown ups." She passed the cup back to Loughlin, who made a big point of mock snatching it. "Thankyou ever so kindly, my love."

Cillian sighed, glancing a hand to the back of his neck as he stared off to the side towards a group that was gathered nearby. "Ah... the Keeper from Eunateria is trying to catch my eye again. I suppose I had best go and rub shoulders if I want to keep up appearances."

"Tough job." Svetlana smirked, thinking it was far the better that such things were left to a family member with much more energy than she. Cillian surprised her by offering up a roll of the eyes that brought the resemblance between himself and his youngest brother into sharp contrast.

"You are telling _me_. Enjoy your night, _Da'hara_." He snapped his fingers at his two sleepy and contentedly coiled offspring. "Come along, children, leave your aunt be now."

Svetlana gave each of the children a big loud smooch to the cheek (effectively grossing out her nephew in the process) and helped lift them up onto their sleepy feet. They slipped their fingers into their parents hands and, with tiny knuckles rubbing the corners of their eyes, trailed along in their parents wake obediently. Dhavaro watched them go, lips pursed and twisted off slightly to the side. And then he said:

"Ever wig you out to think that one day our big old cotton-top is going to Keeper of the clan?"

Loughlin snorted impertinently, leaning back on his elbow whilst rotating his cup in a would-be savy manner. "He'd want to hurry up with it. He's already starting to look a bit geezery."

"Do you think he uses magic to get his hair that white?" Dhavaro asked, flicking his fingers overtop of his own tangled head of hair. Svetlana shrugged, taking what little remained of her brothers withering rollie and drawing what fumes lingered from its dwindling centre.

"Well, he does have two children."

"Junaro should have the white hair then. She's the mama, after all."

"Svetlana!"

The three siblings glanced up at the abrasive summons; spotting a group of youngsters standing close by the fire. They were staring at them with a look as though the scent of something unpleasant had lodged itself in each of their collective noses. One of them, a girl Svetlana knew mainly by face but not by name made a flicking gesture with one finger, as though knocking an invisible insect out of the air.

"You ought to move away from the drunk before he yaks all over you and ruins that nice dress."

One of her companions tilted his head introspectively; speaking in a sort of 'non-whisper' that served the singular purpose of drawing attention to what he was saying. "What is he even doing sitting out with everyone else? Shouldn't he be passed out behind one of the lean-to's by now, choking on his own vomit?"

Dhavaro's good cheer looked to drain from his body as though a hole had been poked in his side. His smile, so wide and bright, slumped drastically to one side; the left remaining hitched into his cheek only through pure force of habit. To Svetlana, he looked completely and utterly embarrassed to have been taken notice of at all and actually glanced to both herself and Loughlin as though apologizing for his presence. This was far more than enough to make Svetlana's blood boil as though it had been set directly to flame and she might have said something in Dhavaro's defence; if Loughlin had not beaten her to it.

"Hey, honey?" He called, his tone as relaxed and as differential as it ever was. He raised his cup towards the group, just so as to make absolutely certain that they weren't about to miss anything he was about to say. "Why don't you just go and choke on a dick?" And then, because the launching of the girls brows didn't seem quite enough of a response: "Yeah. You heard me. Just go, grab a big old dick and gargle that thing til you're spittin up all down the front of yourself. Wouldn't be the first time. Mind your own business if you want folks minding theirs. Okay?"

He made a casual clucking sound in his cheek, raising his cup in a poignant gesture of a toast and then drinking from it as the group rounded on themselves and awayed to parts unseen; casting scandalized glances in their wake. Svetlana, betwixt pure astonishment and ever the more robust delight, buried her face into her palm as laughter finally won out. She had to keep pecking about her eyes with her fingertips to ensure her makeup wasn't ruined, but she found herself quite unable to stop.

"Loughlin! Where did you even learn something like that?" She managed to sput out from between an onslaught of rather unwomanly guffaws and hee-haws. Loughlin, looking all too proud of himself, offered up a garish flip of his wrist as he settled back onto the bridge of his arm with a self-satisfied smirk.

"All self taught, sis."

Dhavaro however looked all the more sorry for Loughlin having felt the need to step in. With lips tucked back in upon themselves, he heaved himself up to his feet with a series of grunts that weren't altogether appropriate for someone barely broaching their twentieth year.

"Look, I should leave you to it, Svette." He said, staggering a little in an attempt to find his footing. He waved a hand in a would be airy fashion, if not for the sadness that had taken root firmly in the notches of his face, battering away his siblings immediate protests. "I don't want to be ruining your big night for you. I know what folks think of me."

"Then piss on them." Loughlin said diplomatically, his own expression shifting from that of his usual adorned boredom and taking on some of the fierceness usually ascribed to his far more passionate siblings. Svetlana nodded, reaching out to grab Dhavaro by the hand as he wobbled dangerously to the side; threatening to send them both crashing down in an ungainly pile on the ground.

"That's right. You're my brother and I love you to pieces." She said firmly, gesturing to the collective number of lingering naysayers with a jerk of her chin. "I'd rather have you here than any of those idiot twits."

"That being said," Loughlin added, raising a finger curtly. "If you are going to chunder at any point in the evening, please direct it towards said twits and not into the laps of your loving siblings, yes?"

Dhavaro took a moment to focus, putting about as much effort into the seemingly unconscious gesture as possible. Comprehension at long last took hold in his eyes and a lazy, yet grateful smile formed on his face.

"A guy can only do his best." He said, flopping down ungainly back beside Loughlin and near about upending both of their drinks in the process. Loughlin made a point of tapping him hard on the back of the hand.

"Seriously. You throw up on me, you're cleaning the trousers. I hand stitched them. They're one of a kind and they are fucking _gorgeous_."

"Loughlin, do you really have to swear all the fucking time?" Svetlana scolded, not catching the irony of her statement until after she had said it.

"Wonder where he learned that from?" Dhavaro laughed, giving a wink with one of his thickly lined eyes before throwing back the last of his drink. He coughed a little, the liquid having clearly gone down the wrong way and his whole body tensed as Assan strode towards the group. Her eyes went immediately to Loughlin, who made no attempt to hide what he was doing and her lip gave that familiar twitch which said she was not the least pleased.

"Now I _know_ you're not drinking."

"Course not." Loughlin said, not missing a beat as he held up his now empty cup. He turned it about, showing her the interior. "Nothing left in the old receptacle, is there?"

"You know what I meant." She shot Dhavaro a censorious look and he immediately got the not so subtle hint.

"Well... don't know about you _Da'hara_ , but I fancy I spot someone I like more than myself." He said, rolling over onto his belly and then using his arms to assist with pushing himself up onto his feet. He scuffed a palm roughly to the top of her head, lacking some of the gentility he might have intended if he had been sober. "Make sure'n you enjoy the rest of your night, uh?"

"Of course." Svetlana said, smiling kindly whilst internally damning him to the bowels of the Black city for being such a traitorous bastard, "Thankyou for the drink, _lethallin_."

Dhavaro gave a friendly cluck of his cheek, swigging back from the bottle of _Effervescent_ as he turned to swagger away. Svetlana reared up, snagging the base of the bottle and snatching it neatly out of his dangling hand. He put up no resistance, for that would likely entail spending longer in Assan's unimpressed company and that was clearly an exchange he was more than willing to make.

Assan's eyes narrowed as she took in the label on the side of the bottle. "Is that _shemlen_ made wine, _Da'hara_?" She asked, in what was clearly a question of the rhetoric. There was no mistaking the writing on the side of the bottle as anything other than the script most often used by humans.

Svetlana gave a soft, tired sigh as she poured another half glass for herself. She wasn't sure it was the best idea, her tolerance for alcohol being quite modest if anything, but she didn't feel yet quite numb enough to float a conversation with her clearly irritated sister.

"Now, don't be angry, Assan. It was a gift from Dhavaro. He went to great strains to get it."

The pains of Dhavaro's efforts were quite lost on Assan; one for whom loyalty to blood superseded all other ventures. "So the wine that our craftsman produce isn't good enough now?" She tutted, glancing off to the side with a slight shake of the head. "Bad enough he has to ply the traders for all that other nonsense he's poisoning his body with and now _this_ on top of it."

"Assan, _really_. Not everything the _shemlen_ produce is of _Fen Harel_ , you know." Loughlin thought on this a moment and and gave a slightly tiddly chuckle. "Or maybe it is. Explain why it's more fun."

Svetlana reached out, taking the sleeve of Assan's forest green dress between her fingers and giving it a slight tug. "Come on Assan, have a drink with me. Just... forget about all that stuff for just a minute and just... be my sister, you know?"

Assan contemplated this apparently foreign concept for some moments longer; weighing up against the somewhat more appealing prospect of casting scandalized looks upon her youngest sibling. She was tired, however; the dark rings around her eyes evidence enough of this and whatever fight she had been attempting to rally died before it truly gained traction. She sighed, the act appearing to entirely deflate the chambers of her body and flicked a hand back past her face as though shooing away some winged parasite.

"Okay. I'll... try it."

"Careful. Try not to like it too much." Loughlin teased, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially as Assan lowered herself down daintily to perch at Svetlana's side. "You may end up having _fun_."

"Oh, hush." She chided, reaching past Svetlana and yanking the wooden cup from Loughlin with a far greater lack of gentility than she had previously demonstrated. Svetlana pressed her lips together, failing to suppress the smile that threatened to bloom on her face and poured what remained of the _Effervescent_ into the waiting chalice. A though came to her then and she gave a slight gasp, dropping the palm of her hand over the cup as prevention to her sister drinking from it.

"Oh... actually, is it okay to take a drink when you're still breast feeding? I'm sorry, I didn't think..."

"It is fine. Noellea was kind enough to take Mahera tonight, so that I could join in the celebrations." Assan petted a hand to the top of her dress; where the swelling of her breasts pushed the material out in a way that Svetlana truly envied. "I've expressed enough milk to cover her feeds for the next few days. Goodness knows, I have been needing one of these for a while."

She tipped her cup towards Svetlana, offering a small, telling smile before bringing it back towards her lips and sipping ever so gingerly from it. Svetlana chuckled softly to see it; as though her sister were expecting poison or some other such thing to find its way into her chalice. As it was, the taste must not have altogether agreed with her, or else she found the bubbles the slightest bit offputting, because a series of small wrinkles formed at the peak of her nose. She stared into the cup, twisted her lips from side to side and at long last evaluated the wine with a surprising nod. Svetlana and Loughlin both laughed to see it.

"I think you have been more stressed than me about the _Vallaslin, lethallan_." Svetlana observed, watching as Assan took another measured sip from the cup and daintily crossed one leg over the other. Her sister seemed to stint on her thoughts a moment, fingers delving into the thick red curls that she had worn loose that night and bringing them over one shoulder to fuss with. She clearly wanted to say something, but as usual did not feel entirely at ease with being vulnerable. Especially not when in the presence of Loughlin; who often displayed much the same mercy to emotional cues that a cat shows to a field mouse it has caught between its front paws.  
Finding a distraction for him was not an altogether difficult task, however and with a flick of her finger, she gestured out over to the far side of the fire.

"Loughlin, could you please go and ask for your brother not to slow dance with the _Halla_?

They all looked over to see that Dhavaro had indeed foisted up one of the smaller, less feisty of the _halla_ and was currently holding the bemused looking beast to his chest and turning in loving circles with it to the tune of the nearby instruments. Loughlin wrinkled up his face, clearly not giving a shit.

"Why? He's not hurting it. For all we know, this is an entirely consensual arrangement."

Assan jammed the base of her cup down into the dirt in front of her; her eyes glaring out into the night with such irritation Svetlana wouldn't have been surprised if an owl dropped straight out of a tree dead. "Must you always argue with me, child? Please?"

Loughlin thankfully must have seen little sport in defying her right then, because he offered up but a loud groan in response, just to let his sister know how truly taxing the impending task was and swung up onto his feet.

"Fine. But don't think I don't know that you just want me out of earshot so you can have one of your little girly talks." He wiped dirt and leaves from the seat of his pants and gave an itinerant flutter of his fingers as he sauntered off. "By all means, natter away."

Assan pursed her lips, looking more tired than ever as she took a rather more considerate sip from her cup. "It is not your duty to entertain your brothers tonight, Da'hara."

Svetlana might have known this was coming. Of course her sister was concerned that she wasn't putting herself out there enough.  
"It's not a duty, Assan, I'm celebrating with them. Enjoying their company."

"Well, you can enjoy their company anytime. This is your night." Assan gestured about the busy gathering. "There are three clans in attendance here, all celebrating your achievement, your coming of age. You should be out there, mingling, meeting people."

"Meeting _men_ , you mean." Svetlana inferred, giving her sister a knowing look. Assan didn't much appreciate the cheek and gave a dismissive wave of her hand. The fact that she refrained from glancing it off of Svetlana's face was some small mercy, at least.

"Oh, don't make it sound as though I am trying to sell you off, _Da'hara._ "

Svetlana might have habitually cowed to her sister in conversation, but that had been before. She was an adult now, charged with her own keep, her own decisions, her right to have her own opinion and to express it. With that in mind, she said: "Assan, with all due respect, you paraded me around like a golden _halla_ for the first hour or two after I got here; introducing me to everything that so much as resembled a man and telling them my whole boring life story. I know what the coming of age is all about, I've been to enough of them to know how it goes. I mean, Mummy and Daddy met at one of these."

She thought Assan might have snapped at her for being so forthright but her sister surprised her still by actually treating her like any other adult she might have been having a conversation with. Albeit one that she was irritated with. "Yes, all right, there's no denying that the coming of age is an opportunity to meet someone. But what harm is there of that?"

"I just... don't want to be rushed into it. If I meet someone, I meet someone. I shouldn't have to go frothing about after them, making a fool of myself."

Assan gave her a hard look. "Well, you're certainly not going to meet anyone sitting over in the shadows with your drunken brother to one side and smug little forked tongued brother to the other. You need to be out there." She gestured once more to the sporadic assembly of assorted elves; most of whom Svetlana had evaluated as being of particularly dull constitution and little appealing so far as going to bed was concerned. "Opportunities for the clans to converge don't come often, _lethallan_. You miss your chance tonight, there won't be much more of them. You will have your pick from those within Lavellan itself, and you have already made it plaintively clear that you have little interest in anyone here."

"Little interest in anyone here and anyone else I've met tonight, for that matter." Svetlana said, quite before she thought to filter herself. Her irritation bled out, loud and plain in her words. How else could she make her sister understand that what it was she was looking for, hadn't yet made itself known to her? That she felt attraction to others mostly on account of being challenged by them; not listening to insincere platitudes, self adulating homages to their hunting prowess or the same recounted tales of the same old thing. Though she was not so rancorous concerning her preferences as her brother, she understood well that feeling of being bored and fed up at times. She had thought with the coming together of the clans that someone might have emerged who would have interested her; offered something different and unique and appealing. It was the Keeper's and their Firsts to whom she had the most diverse conversations and the one to whom she found herself most attracted had turned out be bonded already. It was quite enough to provoke her usually restrained temper.

"How will you know unless you spend more than five minutes with someone?" Assan insisted, her point quite true in and of itself but rather not what Svetlana wanted to hear. Perhaps it was the _Effervescent_ making her more bold than usual, because she felt quite entitled to speak her mind; when otherwise she might have backed down for want of keeping the peace.

"Time I'll never get back! I've spoken with most everyone you've paraded me around for and the majority of them are so dull it would be an insult to compare them to mud!"

Assan's cheek twitched; like the surface of a lake when a fish or some such thing flicks its tail below the water. "So... what? You're waiting for some magical moment?  For the moonlight to shine down and illuminate the person you are meant to be with; to send dewdrops to sparkling in their hair and for fireflies to dance about them in the dying light? To be swept off of your feet and carried off into the sunset on the back of a white hart? Is that it?"

It was such a surprisingly humourous comment to come from her sister that Svetlana couldn't help but laugh at it. To her relief, he sister did so as well. "I would rather wait to actually feel something than to settle for someone I feel nothing for and to make a mockery out of us both in doing so, lethallan!" She said, just as soon as she was able to draw a breath.

Assan sighed, placing the palm of her hand to Svetlana's head; giving her what might have been construed as a doting gesture. "You are seventeen years old, Svetlana. You will end up wasting the best years of your life if you approach courtship with that kind of naïve idealism."

"I don't mean to make you worry, sister." Svetlana said, taking Assan's hand from her head and holding it between her own. Her irritation, which had blossomed so flagrantly moments earlier, coelesced once more into a fey bud inside of her. "I'm still young. I will still have opportunities. I'm not afraid to wait at least... five theoretical minutes for someone to truly move me."

Assan squeezed her hand, giving her a rather vulnerable look. "I'm hard on you, I know. I suppose I just don't want to see you end up alone, like me."

"Oh, sis. You're hardly old." Svetlana petted her cheek. "You've got many long years before you're even _close_ to ending."

"Yes, right." Assan said, acknowledging Svetlana's point with a sad smile. She hardly seemed the least reassured by it, however. "I can't imagine there are too many men out there who would be keen to shack up with a single mother who had so little respect for herself that she threw herself into the lap of the first man who would have her."

"Come on, I think we all know that that's not true. You were in love with him. You hardly slept around. I mean he was, what, the first guy you'd ever been with?"

Assan batted her words away as though they were as inconsequential as ash drifting out from the fire. "I should have waited. I should have waited until I was bonded with someone. Had the proof that he truly loved me before I went and made a fool of myself." She took Svetlana's arm suddenly, staring into her eyes with such desperation that Svetlana knew full well was on account of the _Effervescent_ and its disabling effects. "Promise me, _lethallan_. Promise me that you will not be so foolish as I was. You will keep yourself whole. You will be proud and resilient. You won't throw it away on just any idiot man but wait until the right one comes along. One who will love you enough to make you his wife, one who will earn that intimacy with you, who will worship you like you deserve. Don't end up like me. Alone, with a child. Resented by all her family."

"Assan, don't be silly - don't." She wiped a tear from her sisters cheek, deciding it was best off not to inform Assan that the ship of which she spoke had already well and truly sailed. She was clearly distressed enough as was, without having to hear clarification of her little sisters whoring about. "We don't resent you. We're a tough family, I know. Loughlin's got a smart mouth, I'm as annoying as a summertime mosquito and Dhavaro's, well... Dhavaro."

They both had to chuckle at this one.

"Cillian's maybe the only one of us who really has it together but hey, you don't have to watch out for him. You had to watch out for _us_. That was tough to put on someone. You can't be expected to be perfect all the time, we get that. We still love you." The words looked to weaken Assan a little and Svetlana laughed softly, putting her arms about her sisters midsection and pulling her in for a hug. "Aww... looks like the wine might be getting to you a bit, big sister, huh?"

"It has been, uh... it has been a while." Assan murmured, smiling with embarrassment as she yanked herself up and went to immediate work wiping tears off of her face. A small slip in her otherwise impenetrable defences, but to Svetlana it resonated louder still than cannon fire. "Yes. It might have gone to my head a little."

They were distracted both by the sudden and dramatic change in the music. Dalish made use of a number of instruments during their celebrations; the _okotaru_ which was a sort of fiddle played with a reed bow, the _vaveri_ , which was a wooden pipe and a number of drums, constructed from wood with a leathery hide stretched over the central area. Each was a different size to the next and named accordingly as such. Some made a softer pattering sound, not dissimilar to that of heavy rain upon a leafy canopy. Others were thunderous and imposing and were not struck with the hand but with a wooden club or, in some cases with the especially large _hohonaya_ , with the pad of the foot.

The signature coming together of all these instruments meant one thing only; the call to dance the _Sa'bella'shiral halen_. The dance of _One Thousand Striking feet_. The direct translation incorporated the word for 'journey' as the dance was practiced out of direct reverence for their Dalish ancestors; who embarked upon the Long Walk to Halamshiral. It was a powerful dance, set to the beat and stroke of every instrument the craftsman had at their disposal and played at such a volume so as to make most functioning ears within hearing distance bleed. It was intended to be danced bare foot, but with the purpose of striking the ground with said bare feet loud enough for their blow to resonate. This was done out of respect of the elves who had walked without shoes to Halamshiral, following their hard fought victory against the Tevinter Imperium.

It was not uncommon for a less accustomed youngster to come away from the dance with grazed, bruised feet, or in so many cases, a broken toe or two. Such things were considered rather a point of pride, in fact. Such was the passion invoked in the dance that if the clan were close enough to human settlements for it to be heard, they would strive all the harder to make the earth shake with the pounding of their feet and the chorusing strobes of their instruments. _Shemlen_ had been known to shake if they were to have come along the _Sa'bella'shiral halen_ ; such was the passion and ferocity with which the Dalish danced it. It was, in Svetlana's somewhat biased opinion, one of the most badass things her people had ever come up with.

It was composed of fast paced, almost kick like movements of the legs and strong, decisive movements of the arms. So as to convey resilience, perseverance and their sacred vow to never surrender their autonomy. To never be subjugated. Svetlana rather thought it be a terrible thing to be a _shemlen_ in the presence of such a dance. For it was to them as powerful and as inspiring as the Hymn's of the Faith must have been to the Chantry and the Dalish tended to get very... elvish when doing it. If a human had been around to see such a thing, they would have likely be cowed down by the amount of proud, chin-up, elvhen glory, 'how dare you' glaring going on. It was a dance that fully and completely reminded the Dalish just what they had lost when Halamshiral had burned and how much more they had yet to lose if the humans had their way and dragged them kicking and screaming into their world and shackled them firmly to their faith.

Only the very old or infirm were exempt from the dance, as well. When the music played, all must attend. Not that it seemed much of a venture, truly. The swell of the music and the passion of it carried most along with imperative ease. Even Loughlin, who had little care for the traditions of his people, was changed by the first few cords. Indeed, it was perhaps the one thing that could evoke some fervor in him, for he loved to dance and seemed to ride the waves of music as effortlessly as a vessel floats along the water. As to be expected, he shortly thereafter appeared at Assan and Svetlana's side; his eyes bright and hands twirling in an enticing spindle.

"Listen, _listen_! Finally the _Sa'bella'shiral halen_! Come on now, both of you! Get Cillian up too, come on!"

Though the clans rarely came together, the dance in itself had not changed amongst them. All those present knew how it went and those youngsters who were still learning, were guided through the steps by their elders. As Svetlana yanked her sister to her feet, took her brothers hand and let herself be led out to join the swirling throng by the fire, she felt the strongest, most wonderful swelling in her chest. The very trees seemed to quake with the resonance of their dance; the clapping of their hands and the flicks and stomps of their feet seeming to shake the very leaves from their branches. She joined her siblings, managing to, in the process, extract the now rather startled _halla_ from her Dhavaro's grasp and drag him into the fray.

It was wonderful. Svetlana had never known a time before when every member of her family had come together with a smile on their faces. Even Loughlin looked friendlier than usual, though he kept on incorporating things into the dance that were not traditional but in such a way that most who looked upon him had only to hoot and holler their approval. The dance itself was loud enough when it was simply the one clan alone that danced, but with three in attendance the combined noise was enough to just about rend the Fade apart at the seams. Every animal in the woods must have been running for the hills; fearing that the trees would topple from how deeply the earth was shaking!

So, perhaps she had not found the love of her life that night. But for that one small glimpse in time, her family had come together in such a way that she had never suspected possible. And there, dancing the dance for the ancestors that made her heart swell with such staunch pride and raw emotion, she couldn't imagine ever feeling more a part of anything than she did in that moment.

  
**~X~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I do promise that the Solas stuff is coming very soon! I was hoping for it to be next chapter, but what I can certainly promise is that Svetlana will be heading to the Conclave by at least the end of the next chapter, so it is a start! Hopefully, if I can cut some stuff back I can get there a little faster. I really want these two to start interacting soon!
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for your time everyone. Feel free to kudos and or review if you liked. Or did not like. You do you :) Hope you are all happy and safe wherever you are my darlings and I look forward to seeing you again in the new chapter!
> 
> All my love,
> 
> ~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo

**Author's Note:**

> Does anybody else get to a point where they are playing as their Inquisitor and just love them so damn much you wanna squeeze them until their cute little heads pop off like champagne corks? I get that feeling all the time with Svetlana. Girl has a face like a fucking crooked diamond and a mullet and still I think she's as adorable as all get-out. I'm under the impression however, that such a feeling is quite normal when it comes to people and their OC's and that I need not lose sleep over it. Just give into the love :) 
> 
> Just a heads up, but I anticipate chapter four will be where the events of Inquisition begin. A little world building in the meantime, or character building rather. If it helps, I already have three chapters finished, so it's not to be a huge wait. I may also pop pictures up of Svetlana and some of her brothers at some point, but I'll see how I go first. If you enjoyed, please feel free to post a comment or a kudos. If you didn't enjoy please feel free to post a comment. Or a kudos ;) Whatever floats your boat.
> 
> Oh, and a word to the wise, do not run through scenes of the Solavallen romance with the song 'Bad Liar' by Imagine Dragons playing in the background. That was a particular brand of Hell I absolutely could have done without. I used up a whole box of tissues and got halfway through a toilet roll before the wine kicked in and I felt numb enough to get to sleep. Seriously, don't even imagine the divine Gareth David-Lloyd singing that shit. Or do... Holy shit, that would be some exquisite ear porn. Ah... Solavallen. Though art an beauteous pain.
> 
> That being said, I hope that you are all well and happy, my darlings. Take care until next we meet all my love,  
> ~MadamMortis~ xxx ooo


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